


Fidelity

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [15]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Animal Transformation, Arthur Whump, BAMF!Gwen, Bigotry & Prejudice, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Infidelity, Consent Issues, Dubious Ethics, Emotional Infidelity, F/M, Hurt Merlin, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Jealous!Arthur, Jealous!Merlin, M/M, Magic Reveal, Magical Bondage (not in the kinky way), Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Political Intrigue, Pregnancy, Protective Arthur, Protective Gwen, Protective Merlin, Shapeshifting, Slow Burn, Trust Issues, Unresolved Sexual Tension, pregnant!gwen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-04-18 00:31:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 70,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4685432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canon era AU. Arthur and Gwen have been married for a little under a year when Arthur discovers Merlin's magic, and suddenly everything changes. In a desperate attempt to regain the King's trust, Merlin offers to do the only thing he can think of: to voluntarily bind his power, and with it sacrifice all hope for a united Albion. But as with all things magical, such a concession comes with a price, and with an assassin in their midst and a vital political alliance hanging in the balance, Merlin is not the only one who will find his loyalty tested. </p><p>Initial Arthur/Gwen, end game Arthur/Merlin and Gwen/Lancelot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've basically cherry-picked bits and pieces from canon up to late season 4/early season 5. Mordred is absent, however, and Lance is still alive. Specific warnings will be added at the beginning of each chapter, where necessary.

  
 

 

 

 

 

O N E

 

 

 

Merlin blamed the gods and their wretched sense of irony for the way that Arthur ultimately found out about his magic. He had imagined, in the many times he had daydreamed about this moment, that the king would discover his secret through some act of unquestionable heroism — saving Arthur’s life, perhaps, or rescuing the kingdom from Morgana (again). In reality, however, the act that led to Merlin’s undoing was far less glamorous and frankly somewhat anticlimactic.

 

“Merlin, the delegation from the druids is almost at the gates, so I’m going to need you to mend my shirt when you’re finished — “

 

Arthur stopped in mid-sentence, and Merlin scrambled to his feet, belatedly realising that the door was wide open and the mop he was using to clean the floor was working busily on the opposite side of the room. He stopped it with a look, and stepped hastily between it and Arthur as it clattered to the floor, as if he could physically prevent the comprehension he could already see dawning on Arthur’s face from fully coalescing in the other man’s brain.

 

The king looked from Merlin, to the mop, and back again, his expression gone curiously flat, in a way Merlin had only ever see it do perhaps twice before.

 

“Er,” Merlin said nervously, hands behind his back. He tried for a grin. “I can explain?”

 

Arthur stared at the mop for a moment longer, then seemed to shake himself. “I need you to mend my shirt,” he said brusquely. “Have it ready before the feast this evening, will you?”

 

He didn’t wait for an answer before turning on his heel and leaving the way he had come. His face didn’t change; the door, when he shut it, barely made a sound as it settled into the doorframe. Merlin stood frozen in the centre of the room for a good two minutes after he’d left, his heart pounding as if he’d just run a marathon, working frantically to convince himself that _that did not just happen_ . Best case scenario, he was having an extremely vivid dream, which he would wake up from at any moment. Second-best case scenario, he’d accidentally gotten poisoned again and this was all some hemlock-induced hallucination. In no case could it be that Arthur had walked in here, observed him doing magic, and then _turned around and walked out again without saying anything_.

 

It could have been shock, Merlin supposed. Or perhaps the king was merely too overcome with anger to react. Maybe in the morning Merlin would be woken by the guards coming to drag him to the dungeons, where Arthur would read him the riot act and possibly separate his head from his shoulders with the sword that Merlin had made for him. Only…Merlin had known Arthur for years, and even if he hadn’t, anyone who spent two seconds with the man knew that he wasn’t exactly in the habit of shutting up when he had something to say. And he _never_ missed a chance to criticise Merlin.

 

“Fuck,” Merlin swore to himself, collapsing into Arthur’s favourite armchair and letting the shock wash over him. Arthur knew. Arthur knew he had magic, and Merlin was still employed, still in Camelot and still breathing.

 

He just wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing, or a bad one.

 

 

 

 

 

Merlin didn’t see the king again until it was time for him to dress for dinner. He had remained in Arthur’s chambers while the druids arrived, watching out the window as the king and queen greeted the travelling party and welcomed them graciously to Camelot. He had half expected Arthur to seek him out after that, or at the very least to show up again in his bedroom, demanding an explanation. But the king seemed to vanish as mysteriously as he had appeared, and it wasn’t until early evening, when the delicious smells of the feast in honour of their new guests were wafting through the castle, that he once again deigned to be in the same room as his manservant.

 

Merlin had anticipated Arthur’s earlier request and mended his favourite dress shirt earlier that morning, which he had laid out on the king’s bed along with his ceremonial robe. But if he had hoped for this to elicit some reaction from Arthur, even just one of his usual snide comments about Merlin actually being useful for a change, he was doomed to disappointment. The king stood in the centre of his chambers, arms held out, gaze fixed on the middle distance for all the world as if he expected his clothes just to miraculously rearrange themselves via divine intervention.

 

Merlin swallowed hard as he dutifully undid the king’s laces and removed his day clothes. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife, visible in the stiff set of Arthur’s shoulders and the slight downturn of his mouth, but he had no idea how to break it. Should he say something? Was Arthur waiting for him to speak, or would he be better off if he kept his mouth shut? His heart was pounding so loudly he was sure the king could hear it, and his hands trembled as he slipped the dress shirt over Arthur’s head and laced it up. Still Arthur didn’t comment. He didn’t even seem to notice.

 

Finally, as Merlin smoothed the cape across Arthur’s bowstring-taut back and stepped back, he couldn’t stand it any longer.

 

“Arthur, I can — I — don’t you want me to explain?” he asked, trying and failing to keep the plaintive note out of his voice. The king’s remote gaze didn’t so much as flicker.

 

“At this point, Merlin, I see no good reason why I should believe a single word you say,” Arthur said evenly. “Hand me my scabbard.”

 

Merlin handed it to him in a daze, feeling stunned.

 

“I would never lie to you,” he said, then flinched. “I mean, not about — the only reason I did it was because — “

 

Arthur held up a hand, stemming the flow of words, and where usually there might be an indulgent smile on his lips there was a pained little grimace instead.

 

“I don’t want your excuses, Merlin,” he said.

 

“But — “

 

“ _Enough_.” Finally, a spark of emotion in that cold face, like a flash of lightning between storm-clouds. “You may go.”

 

“Sire — “

 

“You’ll be needed at the feast, Merlin. I can finish dressing myself.”

 

When Arthur got that tone in his voice, there really was nothing Merlin could say that would budge him. Silenced, he bowed shallowly from the waist and retreated, trying not to let the hurt and confusion he felt show on his face.

 

In every scenario where he had pictured Arthur finding out about him, the king was always eager to ask questions. Sometimes he was angry, his pride hurt by the thought that Merlin had kept things from him for so many years; other times, he was just curious, and perhaps a little awed. Never had Merlin expected such — such complete indifference. It was as if Arthur truly didn’t _care_ what Merlin did with his magic. Of course, perhaps that was because he assumed that Merlin merely used it to help with his chores, and if Merlin told him that he’d used it to save the kingdom he might actually pay attention. But Merlin was by no means certain. This mood of Arthur’s wasn’t one he knew how to read.

 

 

 

 

At the feast, Merlin did his best to serve the royal couple as he usually would, a bright smile on his face, but Gwen knew him too well to be fooled by such a charade and was too good a friend to let it pass unnoticed.

 

“Are you all right, Merlin?” She asked, drawing him aside while they were waiting for the food to arrive. “You seem…off. Not that there’s anything wrong with — I mean, you don’t have to tell me if — “

 

Merlin shook his head, and reminded himself not to look at Arthur.

 

“It’s nothing, my lady,” he said, smiling to show his gratitude for her concern. “That is, I’m sure — I expect it will sort itself out eventually.”

 

“Then there is something bothering you,” she said, looking upset. “Is there any way I can help?”

 

Merlin did look at Arthur, then — he couldn’t help it. The king’s face was turned away, and he was conversing with the druid representative with an intent expression, seemingly unaware that Merlin even existed. Gwen followed his gaze, and her own expression softened.

 

“Have you and Arthur had a fight?” she asked, some of the worry smoothing out of her face. She looked radiant that evening in deep blue silk trimmed with silver, deftly cut in a manner that highlighted her pregnancy without detracting from her beauty, and Merlin spared a moment to be pleased for her all over again. Camelot couldn’t ask for a better queen, and Gwen deserved all the happiness life with Arthur could give her. “Oh, Merlin, you know he cares about you. I’m sure it will blow over in time.”

 

Merlin dipped his head. “As you say, my lady.”

 

“Don’t let him spoil the feast for you,” she said, dimpling up at him. “It’s not every day Camelot plays host to a delegation of sorcerers, after all.”

 

For a second, Merlin blinked at her, wondering if she knew — had Arthur _told_ her? But she was smiling perfectly innocently, her gaze leaving his face for a moment to track the druid currently conversing with the king, and there seemed to be no hidden meaning to her words.

 

“Is Arthur really serious about treating with the druids?” Merlin blurted, unable to help himself. He bit his lip the moment the words escaped, glancing around to check they hadn’t been overheard — even now, _especially_ now, he was wary about discussing the subject openly. As the king’s manservant, it wasn’t really his place to address matters of state (never mind that he used toalways talk things over with Arthur anyway, in the privacy of the king’s chambers). Gwen, however, did not seem to take offence.

 

“From what he’s told me,” she said, raising her eyebrows slightly. “Why, has he said something different to you?”

 

Merlin twisted his lips a little, and made a see-sawing motion with his hand. “Not exactly. I just thought…he might have changed his mind or something, I don’t know.”

 

“We are talking about the same King Arthur, aren’t we?” Gwen asked him, looking amused. “I seem to remember you telling me how much of a stubborn prat he was close on a dozen times when you first came to work for him. Once he’s made up his mind on something it takes quite a lot to sway him, you know that.”

 

“Well, yes,” said Merlin, backtracking. “I just meant — I wasn’t sure he could get past it, that’s all. The magic, I mean. After his parents, and Morgana, it — it’s a lot to ask, from anyone.”

 

“That’s just the sort of man he is,” Gwen said, her voice soft. She glanced over at Arthur, who was laughing at something the druidic ambassador had said with every appearance of enjoyment, and her face took on an expression of proprietary pride that it made Merlin’s heart ache to see. He ducked his head in acknowledgement, mumbling something about having to serve some more wine and darting away before he could blurt out what was on the tip of his tongue, which was that Arthur seemed perfectly willing to put aside his prejudices for total strangers, but not for one of his closest friends.

 

Unless, of course, he and Arthur had never really been friends after all.

 

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

 

Arthur hadn't _meant_ to ignore Merlin — leastwise, not at first. The realisation of what Merlin could do, of what he _was_ , hit him with the force of a well-aimed lance and mentally unseated him for a time, so that all he had felt able to do in response was to turn around and leave before he said or did something he’d regret. Afterwards, however, he hadn’t seemed to be able to look at the other man without experiencing an immediate resurgence of the same suffocating bewilderment and anger. He needed time, he told himself, that was all. Time to process the realisation that apparently he hadn’t known his manservant as well as he thought he had.

 Time to process the fact that Merlin, like everyone else, had been keeping secrets from him since the moment they met.

 

Arthur liked to think that he was a just man and, no matter what Merlin might claim to the contrary, not given to an overly inflated opinion of himself, on the whole. But he couldn't help wondering why so many of those he loved and trusted tended to betray that trust in spectacular fashion. It wasn’t enough that his father had lied to him, about Morgana’s parentage if nothing else. Oh no. The woman who was his half sister by blood and his true sister by upbringing had made it her mission to destroy him and his kingdom, his uncle had turned traitor to help her, and now his best friend was a lying, scheming sorcerer secretly practicing magic right under Arthur's nose — to do his _chores_ , of all things. It was enough to make a man question his judgment of character, and rightly so. To have so many of those in whom he placed his utmost trust betray him — how could he have been so wrong, and so frequently?

 

Then again, a small voice whispered at the back of his mind, perhaps it was Arthur himself who was the problem; perhaps he was simply not the sort of man who could inspire the same loyalty and devotion as his father had, and that weakness inevitably led those who followed him to seek out other options. Uther had been a hard man, and a difficult one, and there were times when Arthur had felt, if not shame, then no small measure of distaste for the way his father had seemed determined to rule through fear and violence. But now that he was king himself, he thought perhaps he understood Uther better than he ever had when he was alive. No, he didn’t think killing all magic-users simply for practicing magic was necessarily fair or just ( _killing Merlin_ , he thought, and shuddered at the image it invoked), but nor did his dream of equality and brotherhood seem all that feasible either at this particular moment, not when everyone he knew seemed determined to stab him in the back at the first opportunity.

 

Sitting at the feast, he tried his best to look as if he was deeply interested in the druid ambassador’s words, but in reality his attention was focused on Merlin and Gwen at the opposite table, their heads bent together in some kind of whispered conference. Did she know? He wondered. Had Merlin told everyone except Arthur, or had he kept it a secret? Surely the queen would have said something, to Arthur if to no one else. Gwen was incapable of keeping anything from him for any length of time — anything so significant, anyway.

 

Of course, he had once thought the same about Merlin, and look how that had turned out.

 

“My Lord? Is something troubling you?”

 

Arthur blinked, turning back to the ambassador with a flush of embarrassment. “No, no, Your Grace, my apologies. I’m afraid it’s been a long day.”

 

Aerys smiled knowingly at him, fortunately seeming more amused than offended. “Indeed it has. I was just asking Your Majesty what led you to accept our request for this parlay. Your father’s views on our kind are…well known among the magical peoples.”

 

“I am not my father,” Arthur said, reflecting ironically that this was the very thing he’d just been thinking, albeit in a less favourable respect. “I would not overlook the good an alliance with magic might do Camelot in the future because of the harm it has done in the past.”

 

“A wise position,” Aerys said, inclining his head. He hesitated for a moment, then said, “Forgive me if this is an impertinent question, My Lord, but I am curious — given your history, how did you come around to such an…open-minded perspective? I only ask because I wonder whether there might perhaps be a particular individual responsible for influencing your perspective. A friend, perhaps?”

 

Arthur clenched his jaw around the admission that, as of that morning, he wasn’t entirely sure he _had_ any friends in Camelot, let alone any whose opinions he valued enough to let them shape his foreign policy. Instead, he drew in a long breath, his mind glancing back over the years he had spent with Morgana, and how afraid she had been, towards the end. He hadn’t seen or understood it at the time, but with hind-sight it was clear she had been petrified.

 

“If nothing else, my experience has taught me that anyone could be a sorcerer,” he said, measuring his words carefully so that they would give no hint of the irony underlying them. “And that any man, when backed into a corner, can become desperate. I wish to provide the magical members of my kingdom with more peaceful options than attempting regicide to avenge themselves upon my father’s line.”

 

Aerys nodded.

 

“And the ban?” he said. “No doubt you are aware that our people seek to have it lifted.”

 

Arthur smiled at him, and reached for his wine, using the goblet as an excuse to shield his expression. “Indeed. As you are no doubt aware that my people seek comparative concessions from you. But that is a matter for the discussion table tomorrow, Master Aerys. Let us not spoil this good wine with matters of state.”

 

“As you wish, My Lord.”

 

To Arthur’s relief, the druid ambassador promptly struck up a conversation on a different topic: Arthur’s personal encounters with the various magical beasts that had attempted to kill him over the years. Apparently, the other man had a keen interest in zoology, and Arthur was happy enough to regale him with some of the choicer exploits while they finished off their meal. Part-way through his description of the animated gargoyles that had nearly overrun the castle, Sir Gwaine took up the tale from the ambassador’s other hand, and Arthur’s attention was left free to wander back to Merlin, who was no longer talking to Gwen. Instead, Arthur’s manservant was standing to one side, half hidden by the shadows of a nearby alcove, holding a jug of ale in his hands and staring down into it as if he were attempting to ascertain whether or not it was poisoned simply by looking.

 

Perhaps he could, Arthur thought; or perhaps the frown now marring his forehead was because he was contemplating poisoning it himself. It wasn't like Arthur would be able to tell the difference. It used to be that Arthur was convinced he could read Merlin like an open book, but after this morning he realised he could no longer rely on his own perceptions. Although he looked familiar, the man in the alcove was little more than a stranger. A stranger who could just as easily turn out to be a threat.

 

The thought of it made him sick, and he turned away from Merlin to push his chair away from the table, the scrape of wood against the floor interrupting Gwaine just as he was saying, “…and then Arthur was flying through the air like he’d been hit by a giant. You should have seen his face!”

 

“And on that note, I believe it is time for me to retire,” Arthur said, cutting across his knights’ laughter with a well-practiced smile. He hoped it didn’t look as false as it felt. “Forgive me, Ambassador. Do feel free to remain and enjoy the entertainment. I trust early tomorrow afternoon will do as well to begin negotiations?”

 

“Indeed, Your Majesty.” Aerys rose also, bowing politely to his host. “Thank you. I bid you a good night.”

 

“And to you as well.” Arthur returned the bow, then left the room, shaking his head subtly at Gwen as she caught his eye. He had already told Merlin he wouldn’t be needed for the evening, and Guinevere was a dutiful queen; though he knew she would be worried about him, he also knew she would take his hint and stay until their guests had retired, to observe their behaviour. Which meant that Arthur would have the rest of the night to himself, to get his thoughts in order before negotiations began tomorrow. He had a feeling he was going to need all the time for reflection he could get.

 

 

 

 

When Gwen at last entered their shared bedchambers later that evening, Arthur was still awake, lying on his side of the massive bed and staring up at the ceiling as he tried to wrestle his emotions back into some semblance of control. He didn’t stir when she entered, not even when she sat down on the mattress on his other side with an audible sigh.

 

“That was unfair,” she said, though there was only a mild reproof in her tone. “To leave your pregnant queen to deal with your magical visitors alone.”

 

Arthur felt a flash of guilt, even though he knew she wasn’t truly angry at him.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said contritely, sitting up and scooting closer so that he could help her with the laces of her dress. She leaned into him tiredly, sweeping her dark curls to one side to let him work, and for a moment Arthur was concerned by the obvious exhaustion in the motion. He touched the small of her back gently. “Are you all right?”

 

He could hear the smile in her voice when she answered. “I’m pregnant, not dying, Arthur. I’m only tired. Your son has taken to kicking my bladder whenever he wants attention.” She laughed a little, turning so that she could kiss him softly over her shoulder. “He’s becoming as demanding as his father.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said again. He picked delicately at the laces down the back of Guinevere’s gown, smiling a little as she made a sound of relief that reminded him of his own joy in finally stepping free of formal-wear. “I needed some time to think.”

 

“About your fight with Merlin?”

 

Arthur’s hands stilled at her waist. “How did you — ?”

 

“Please. Even the druids could tell things weren’t right between the two of you, and they’ve barely been in Camelot five minutes. I’ve never seen two grown men look quite so much like petulant children.” She covered her mouth for a moment, something she still sometimes did when she forgot that she was a queen and thus fully entitled to speak her mind. “I mean, not that I think — I’m sure that you both just — “

 

“He’s been keeping secrets from me,” Arthur said, cutting her off with a soft kiss to the base of her neck. “He’s — there are things he hasn’t told me. Important things.”

 

Guinevere’s back stiffened, and for a moment Arthur recalled her and Merlin in close conversation at the banquet, and wondered if she knew — or could guess — what he was referring to. When she spoke, however, all she said was, “Everyone has their secrets, Arthur.”

 

“Even you?”

 

She laughed at that, and drew away from him, levering herself awkwardly to her feet until her gown slipped from her shoulders into a pool of fabric on the rough stone floor. She was beautiful like that, dark-skinned and near naked in just her shift, but her face when she turned to regard him was serious. “Yes, Arthur. Even me. And I’m quite certain you don’t tell me everything either. It’s perfectly natural.”

 

“What if your secret was dangerous, though?” Arthur pressed. “What if it could destroy the kingdom?”

 

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Merlin has a secret that could destroy Camelot?”

 

Arthur shook his head, in a way that he hoped conveyed exasperation rather than denial. “Supposing he did.”

 

“Well then,” Gwen said slowly, her gaze calculating. “I can only imagine that he would have a good reason for keeping it from you. Merlin is devoted to you, and to this kingdom, you know that.”

 

Arthur made a non-committal sound, and subsided into silence, watching her continue with her evening _toilette_. She let him be for the next few minutes while she washed her face and changed into her night-dress, her expression creased and thoughtful as she moved with lumbering grace around their chambers. Finally, when she had extinguished all but one of the candles and had settled herself into bed next to him, she said, quiet: “Are you going to tell me what it is that you’ve discovered?”

 

Arthur sighed, and rolled over so that he was closer to her, the comforting warmth of her body pressed familiarly against his side. “I need to decide what to do about it, first,” he said, hoping that she would understand. This was about him and Merlin before it was about anyone else, and it needed to be settled the same way.

 

There was a moment’s silence, then Gwen shifted away from him to blow out the candle.

 

“Of course,” she said, the tone of her voice giving nothing away. “Good night, Arthur.”

 

“Good night, Guinevere.”

 

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

 

Gwen slept badly that night, thoughts of Merlin’s improbable secret and the restlessness of the child in her belly keeping her awake, and when she rose the next morning it was to a cold floor and no fire in her dressing room — once again, the servants had conveniently ‘forgotten’ to prepare the hearth for her as they made their morning rounds of the citadel.

 

It was one of several small slights that had become familiar to her over the past few months. They never dared to do it where Arthur might notice, and often it was in ways that only she would understand; a stain on her favourite gown that mysteriously would not come out, a misplaced trinket or hair ribbon, a too-shallow curtsey or an inexplicable lack of her favourite sweetmeats. Nevertheless, it stung, and there were days when she wished for her old life with a fierceness that made her chest ache. Morgana had been more than just a mistress to her, she had been a friend, and Gwen felt the loss of her sharp mind and cunning wit almost as much as she missed her gentle assurances and heartfelt kindness. Once, she would have turned to Merlin, but that was difficult now that she was queen, and in any case Merlin had his own problems to worry about, the secret he was keeping from Arthur no doubt chief among them. She trusted Merlin, she always had, but she could hardly bring up the subject without revealing Arthur’s confidences, and that was something she would not do. Things were complicated enough without making Merlin feel as if he were a regular topic of discussion among his friends.

 

And so she was left to herself. She dressed slowly and awkwardly, the chill air pebbling her skin and heightening the tenderness of her breasts, and returned to her bedchamber just as Arthur was stirring under the blankets, his tousled head emerging slowly from beneath the duvet.

 

“You’re up early,” he said, tipping back his head to receive her kiss. “Everything all right?”

 

“Everything’s fine,” Gwen said, smiling. She smoothed his hair with one hand, amused as ever at how much younger and less king-like he looked with sleep in his eyes. “Some of us are used to waking at the crack of dawn, Your Highness.”

 

Arthur’s eyes crinkled. “Are you calling me lazy, my lady?”

 

Gwen pretended to deliberate. “If the shoe fits,” she said, then let out a little shriek as he caught hold of her around the waist and, with infinite gentleness, tackled her to the bed. “Take care, my lord!” Gwen exclaimed, feeling slightly breathless. “Your son — “

 

“Our son,” Arthur corrected. He put a hand over her belly, his skin warm even through the layers of fabric as he stroked the swelling of her stomach. “And he is safe enough, I’m sure.”

 

Gwen let him kiss her, her eyes fluttering closed with pleasure at his confident touch, and the hurt of last night’s reticence and her maidservant’s deliberate incompetence ebbed away as the warmth of his arms surrounded her. It was enough that she had this, she told herself, pressing up against him eagerly and opening her mouth to his. They were enough — _Arthur_ was enough. The rest would come, given time.

 

 

 

 

That afternoon, the negotiations began in earnest. Gwen attended the session at Arthur’s side in spite of his protests, reminding him tartly that just because she was pregnant didn’t mean she was incapable of performing her duties, something that he himself had proven just that morning. He had subsided with a nod and a proud little grin that he didn’t think she saw, and Gwen thought perhaps she understood Morgana’s desire to challenge Uther at every turn a little better now that she found herself in a similar position. There was something enjoyable about upsetting peoples’ expectations of her, even when that person was her husband, and ought to know better than to underestimate her.

 

Several of the Druids looked at her askance when she swept through the doors on Arthur’s arm, but if they disapproved of involving a pregnant woman in their diplomacy they kept it to themselves. Instead, Aerys turned to the king and bowed low.

 

“Good afternoon, Your Majesty.”

 

“Good afternoon, My Lord Aerys. I trust you slept well?”

 

"Quite well, thank you, my lord.” He glanced at the other druids gathered around him. “We are all eager to begin our negotiations.”

 

Arthur inclined his head, smiling, his hand tight on Gwen’s arm. “As are we. Please, be seated, and let us begin.”

 

Out of politeness, the Druids waited until both Gwen and Arthur had taken their seats before following suit. Then Aerys leaned forward, the over-long sleeves of his robe falling back as he laced his hands together and braced them on the table-top. “We wish to start by thanking your Majesties for this opportunity. It has been many years since our kind were so welcomed in Camelot, and it is our hope that this is to be a sign of things to come.”

 

“Your reception here is no less than you deserve, as our guests,” Arthur said, with a modesty that Gwen recognised as being wholly calculated. His face gave nothing away, but his eyes were narrowed slightly, as though weighing his opponent. “That being said, I accept your gratitude and share in your hopes for the future of this _entente_.”

 

“You must be aware, my lords,” Gwen said, picking up the conversation smoothly. “That there is a more pressing reason for our summons than the friendship we all hope will come from these talks. Albion is in grave danger.”

 

Aerys glanced at her. “The Saxons have plagued our shores before.”

 

“Yes, they have. But seldom have they done so with as much success — or impunity," Arthur said grimly. “Their numbers have grown, but more significantly, it appears that they are now being aided by magic.”

 

A ripple went through the assembled men, and Gwen watched as several of them turned to converse with one another in shocked whispers. The members of Arthur's council didn't stir; they had known as much already, of course, though Gwen could see Merlin in his usual place by the door staring at Arthur with a complicated expression on his face. It almost looked as if he were frightened to learn that magic was involved.

 

Aerys was speaking again. “Forgive my impertinence, Your Majesty, but how can you be sure that their success has been down to magic? Perhaps they have simply been lucky."

 

Arthur snorted rather inelegantly. "I'm afraid _luck_ has had little to do with it, Master Aerys," he said drily, emphasising the word ‘luck' in a manner that Gwen wasn't quite sure how to interpret. “We have received several accounts from eye-witnesses which claim that the Saxons have been torching villages using their bare hands, turning men into stone and causing earthquakes which have levelled several buildings. They also seem to be preternaturally strong, and able to turn into beasts at will.”

 

“All descriptions which might simply be the result of panic and confusion,” Aerys pointed out. “However, I take your meaning. If they are indeed using magic it would explain why they have managed to spread so far inland so swiftly.”

 

“It also represents a serious threat to Camelot," Arthur said, and Aerys bowed his head.

 

“Am I to understand, then, that this is why you sent for us?”

 

"Camelot is powerful,” Gwen said carefully, glancing at her husband. “But even we can’t fight such a war on two fronts.”

 

“You refer to Morgana."

 

Gwen saw Arthur’s hand tighten on the arm of his chair, and he leaned forward to cover the slip, the line of his back tense and his expression intent. “My sister seeks to take my throne and use magic to rule the people of Camelot. The Saxons merely wish to destroy us all. Given the choice, I would rather not fight either, but since I must, I would prefer to be able to win.”

 

“Then it is your intention to use magic as well?” Aerys said, his eyebrows going up. To Gwen's left, a couple of the older counsellors shifted uneasily in their seats, clearly uncomfortable with this turn in the conversation, but Arthur didn’t even glance at them, his eyes fixed on Aerys' face.

 

“Magic is a tool, like any other. I will not let my people suffer because I refuse to wield it.”

 

It seemed that Aerys understood more than Arthur was saying, because he nodded, and something about his posture relaxed somewhat. Gwen, who knew how much it had cost Arthur to come to this conclusion, brushed her fingers over his discreetly in a fleeting gesture of support. He smiled at her, but seemed distracted, his gaze flicking once towards where Merlin stood before he added: “Of course, that does not mean I am comfortable with allowing magic-users to run around unchecked. If Camelot is to even consider opening her gates to the magical community, we must be certain that we are not simply letting in yet another threat from abroad.”

 

Aerys looked eager, straightening in his seat at the mere hint of the ban being repealed, and Gwen suppressed a sigh as the negotiations began in earnest. This part of the discussion was one she could contribute to but little. Her experience of sorcery was limited; it had been the cause of her father's death, and for that she regarded it with suspicion, but she had never been taught to hate it the way she knew Arthur had. At worst, it had been yet one more source of fear in a life that had never been easy, and when he had come to her to discuss the possibility of lifting the ban she had been all for it, wanting to ensure that no one ever suffered as her family had done because of her father’s false imprisonment and execution. When it came to the logistics, however, Arthur knew more of statecraft than she did, and she sometimes felt as if she would never quite understand all of the subtle nuances that governing a kingdom involved.

 

Disengaged from the discussion, her attention drifted once more to Merlin. Unlike her, he appeared deeply interested in the proceedings, his eyes darting from Arthur to the Druids and back again. There were a number of those on the council who still objected to Arthur’s proposed course of action, and just as many on the Druid's side who were clearly suspicious of his potential motives. Whenever any of them stood up to speak, Gwen could see Merlin twitch, obviously dying to step in and have his say. With uncharacteristic reticence, however, he remained silent, and Gwen could only suppose that his fight with Arthur had gone some way towards curbing his tongue.

 

Whatever their argument had been about, Gwen mused, it must have been a serious one if it could stifle even Merlin’s natural exuberance. At one point during the afternoon, she caught Arthur watching him as well, a stormy expression on his face that Gwen could not recall ever having seen before. Merlin was studiously avoiding his gaze, his eyes on the floor and his hands tucked behind his back in the model of obedient servitude, but Gwen got the impression that he was listening to every word that was being said with curious attention.

 

“Are you certain that there is no one whose advice we might not seek on the matter?” Aerys was saying, with some insistence. “There must be someone in your court, perhaps, who is learned in the magical arts — “

 

“I’m afraid there is not, Master Aerys,” Arthur said, rather more loudly than Gwen thought the occasion warranted, finally looking away from Merlin. “My father was not kind to those with such talents; I'm afraid he drove them all out long ago.”

 

“But someone could have hidden their gifts — escaped your father’s knowledge — “

 

“Such a person would hardly be trustworthy, would they?” Arthur interrupted sharply. At Gwen’s frown, he moderated his tone enough to say quietly, “I’m afraid I can’t abide liars, my lord. In any case, it is a moot point. I know of no one.”

 

The Druid seemed somewhat taken aback by this abrupt dismissal, but he wisely did not press the issue, and the discussion moved on to other matters. Troubled, Gwen waited until the talk had been steered back into calmer waters before turning her head to look at Merlin once again — only to find that he had already left, the door to the council chamber swinging shut behind him. Perhaps it made sense; at times, in the past, she had suspected that Gaius knew more than he was letting on about the practice of magic. How else could he come up with so many cures for magical ailments and curses, or pull Arthur back from the brink of death so frequently? She had never voiced her suspicions, but it stood to reason that as his apprentice Merlin would know of Gaius’ background, which meant that Arthur probably did as well. Perhaps he felt that Arthur was slighting the old man by not putting him forward as a potential information source, whereas Arthur — being Arthur — resented the fact that Merlin had been keeping things from him. On the other hand, Gaius was already a member of the council; it was hardly necessary to single him out in such a way, and Gwen had a feeling that Arthur would not want to reveal such a resource so easily. Better for the Druids to remain ignorant of the extent of Camelot’s knowledge about magic, at least at first.

 

In any event, there was no way to determine the matter now. She would simply have to find out later. She shifted back in her chair and turned her attention once more to the task at hand, straightening her spine subtly and trying to ignore the thump of tiny feet against her internal organs. Between the child and the uncomfortable chair, which she had no doubt she would be spending a lot of time in during the days to come, she was beginning to suspect that she would be bruised black and blue by the time these negotiations were over. At least the discomfort would keep her awake.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

 

 

T W O

 

 

 

 

 

Arthur continued to ignore Merlin for the rest of the week, and then for the weeks following that. Merlin had hoped that the whole thing would blow over within a day or two, and that Arthur would start speaking to him again once he’d gotten over the initial surprise of his revelation. He’d even have settled for being yelled at — anything but this unbearable silence. 

 

Arthur, however, seemed to have entirely forgotten Merlin’s existence. The closest he came to proper communication was when he said, “No, the red one,” or, “Fetch my sword, I’m going to training,” as if Merlin were any other servant in Camelot, a faceless dogsbody there to address his sovereign’s every whim. When Merlin tripped over things (accidentally or on purpose, although mostly accidentally), he didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow, although Merlin had caught him flinching once or twice, as though he were expecting something to catch on fire. And if Merlin attempted to speak to him, to discuss his magic or even just to comment on the weather, Arthur turned mysteriously deaf, and would not acknowledge him. In desperation, Merlin had almost contemplated wearing his official hat voluntarily, just to see what Arthur would do, but in the end he hadn’t dared. He didn’t think he could bear it if the king ignored that too.

 

Gwen had started shooting him sympathetic looks whenever she saw him, and Merlin was quite sure she had spoken to Arthur about his behaviour at least twice, because he’d walked in on them having a quiet and intense discussion once in the antechamber and again in Arthur’s quarters, which they had broken off the moment they saw him. Arthur had been extremely terse and extremely polite to Merlin for days afterwards, his jaw all tense the way he got when someone appealed to his better nature against his will. But he still didn't talk to him.

 

All in all, it was quite a mess, and Merlin had taken to doing chores that took him out of Arthur’s way as much as possible, if only to avoid having it rubbed in his face how wrong he had been about the man and their relationship. 

 

“He’s just like Uther,” he said crossly to Kilgharrah one night, having called the dragon down to their customary hill outside the city. “Stupid and prejudiced and a complete and utter _prat_.”

 

Kilgharrah snorted down at him, examining xir front claws with studied indifference. “Has he threatened to execute you for sorcery recently?” xie asked. “Tried to have you locked up in the dungeons and forced you to flee for your life? Has he kept you chained in a cave for nearly quarter of a century?”

 

Merlin glowered. “No,” he admitted grudgingly. “But I’m pretty certain that’s only because he hasn’t thought of it yet. He’s been a bit busy with the Druids — they’ve been shut up in the council chamber for _days_. I can’t think what they have to talk about that’s taking so long.”

 

The negotiations were still ongoing; there were rumours that the Druids would likely stay for the entire winter, and that Arthur himself had invited them to remain in the castle until they had ironed out their differences. Merlin only knew this from what he’d heard the other servants saying, however, and his own guesses from things he’d learned in the course of his duties — Arthur hadn’t said a word to him about it, just as he hadn’t bothered to tell Merlin the _real_ reason they were treating with the Druids was because the Saxons were using magic to take over Albion. Really, Arthur had no right to be angry with Merlin for keeping secrets when he went and did the exact same thing.

 

“Of course. Uther _loved_ the Druids,” Kilgharrah said drily. “Yes, I can see the resemblance quite clearly now.”

 

“All right, fine,” Merlin snapped. “So he’s nothing like Uther. He’s still a prat, and he still hates me.”

 

“He cannot hate you, young warlock. Your destinies are too closely intertwined for that.”

 

“So you keep saying. But how can I be his other half when he refuses to accept me for who I am?”

 

“Rome wasn't built in a day,” the dragon told him. Xie made a rumbling sound deep in xir chest, which could have been a laugh — or it might have just been indigestion. “And a river takes many generations to carve its bed out of the rock-face. You cannot force it to alter its course on a whim.”

 

“That’s what Gaius said,” Merlin said with a sigh. “Well, more or less. He was a bit less cryptic about it, though.”

 

“Then perhaps you should listen to Gaius, and stop disturbing me with your pointless squabbling.”

 

Merlin snorted, and finally smiled, reaching up a hand to run it over Kilgharrah’s smooth snout. The dragon dipped xir head, breathing out warmly through xir nostrils. “Sick of me already?” Merlin asked. “Don’t you get lonely, flying around out there on your own with no one to talk to?”

 

"I am a dragon. Dragons do not get _lonely_." Kilgharrah sounded affronted, but xie allowed Merlin to stroke xir neck all the same, and stayed there chatting — inasmuch as dragons could be said to chat — until the early hours of the morning. Tactfully, Merlin decided not to let on what he suspected, which was that dragons, like sorcerers, sometimes got very lonely indeed.

 

 

 

 

In truth, Merlin was aware that at least part of his isolation was his own doing. Arthur was no longer speaking to him, that much was true, but Gwen still stopped to talk to him whenever she had the time, and the knights remained as friendly as ever. Gwaine in particular had insisted on dragging Merlin out to the tavern a few times since the Druids had arrived, claiming that a night on the town could cure anything from hangnails to hiccoughs, and would surely be sufficient to wipe the hang-dog expression off his face. Merlin had gone along willingly enough, but he had known from the beginning that the only thing such an evening would cure was his lack of hang-over, even if he did manage to forget his troubles for an hour or two.

 

The fact was, none of the others knew his secret. Gaius alone was privy to the existence of Merlin’s magic, and he was still so piqued at Merlin’s carelessness in getting caught that he would only raise his eyebrows in a truly terrifying manner whenever Merlin brought up the subject. After Arthur’s reaction to the discovery, Merlin couldn’t bring himself to risk any of his other friendships by revealing himself, which meant that there was no one else with whom he could share the true reason for their argument, and no way to explain why he was beginning to fear that Arthur was determined never to speak to him again. 

 

When Lancelot returned to Camelot, not long before the first snow fell, it therefore came as something of a relief, for all that he arrived as the bearer of bad news. Deprived of Arthur’s company and constrained by discretion in the presence of the rest of his friends, Merlin had been beginning to find the castle walls uncomfortably close to suffocating, and the addition of the winter chill and its limitations on travel only made things worse. For that reason, he had taken to gathering herbs in the forest for as long as he could stand it, coming home stiff-fingered and frost-bitten, his basket never more than half full.

 

It was on one such excursion that Merlin encountered Lancelot on the road leading back to the citadel. At first Merlin didn’t recognise him, as he was riding towards Camelot at a rapid pace, bent over the neck of a fine roan gelding with his face concealed by his travelling cloak. Merlin stopped what he was doing to watch — the animal was beautiful, more well-bred than the farm hacks and travelling ponies they usually saw on the road to the city, more in the order of Arthur’s own mounts — and was surprised when the rider reined in a few metres down the road and wheeled back towards him. It wasn’t until the man pulled up beside him and pushed back the hood of his cloak that he understood why.

 

“Lancelot!” Merlin exclaimed, feeling a genuine smile break across his face. “You’re back!”

 

“It is good to see you, Merlin, old friend,” Lancelot said warmly. He leaned down in the saddle to clasp Merlin’s arm, and Merlin clapped his shoulder with enthusiasm. “Are you well?”

 

“Well enough,” Merlin said, grinning at him. “But what brings you back this way? I thought you were staying in a monastery in Northumbria.”

 

“I left,” Lance said briefly. He glanced back along the road in the direction of the castle, and it didn’t take much effort for Merlin to guess where his thoughts had strayed to. “I had already stayed away too long, in any case.” He looked at Merlin. “What news of the castle?”

 

“Gwen and Arthur are both well,” Merlin told him. “And the knights, too. Gwaine will be glad to see you.”

 

“And I him.” Lancelot smiled, but the expression didn’t last long. “I hope you won’t think me rude, but I have urgent news for the King. Is Arthur at home?”

 

“Yes, of course,” Merlin said. He glanced sharply into Lancelot’s face, and now that he was paying attention could see that it was drawn with strain in a way that was due to more than the simple weariness of a long ride. He abandoned the basket on the roadside without another thought. “I’ll come back with you,” he said, holding out an arm and reaching for the saddle. “Swing me up.”

 

Lancelot did as he was told. “Good idea,” he said. “It will save us both some time.”

 

Merlin was brimming with curiosity, but managed to hold in his questions as Lancelot kicked the horse into motion again, this time at a brisk canter. He would find out soon enough, and judging from Lance’s anxiety, he could only guess that it wouldn’t be good.

 

 

 

 

Lancelot said nothing until they had reached the castle courtyard and the gelding was being led away to the stables for some warm mash and a good rub-down. Only when the groom and other stablehands were out of hearing did he turn to Merlin and say quietly, “And your special talent — have you had much occasion to use it, lately?”

 

Merlin stopped in his tracks, startled, and then had to scramble to catch up as Lancelot strode briskly up the courtyard steps into the castle. “No, actually,” he said. “Things have been pretty quiet here, even with the Druid delegation.” He paused for a moment, remembering just what he _had_ been using his magic for recently, and had drawn in a breath to tell Lancelot the news that Arthur was now aware of his ‘talent’ and probably regarded it as anything but, when Lancelot turned to him in confusion, his brows furrowed.

 

“Druid delegation?” he inquired. “What business do the Druids have in Camelot?”

 

“Yes — oh, of course, you wouldn’t know. Arthur’s been in negotiations with them for months now,” Merlin explained. “I know, it surprised me too. He doesn’t tell me much, but I think he’s worried about the Saxons.”

 

Lancelot looked troubled. “I suppose that’s good news,” he said. “I have a feeling we’re going to need their help sooner rather than later.”

 

Merlin took that to mean he already knew about the Saxons using magic, and felt his stomach knot with apprehension at the thought, just as it had the night Arthur had first revealed the presence of foreign sorcerers to the Druids. Now that Arthur knew about his powers, would the King allow him to fight? Or would he not consider Merlin trustworthy enough? Would it even occur to him to talk to Merlin about defending the citadel? The prospect of an actual conversation with Arthur after so long — even about something so distressing as the prospect of all-out magical warfare — filled him with impatience, and he sped up his pace, matching Lancelot stride for stride as they swept through the corridors. When his knock on the King’s door produced a brisk “Come in!" Merlin pushed open the doors ahead of Lancelot without really thinking, only to stop short as Arthur's uncharacteristically hostile expression hit him like a slap in the face. The next instant, the king’s gaze had travelled further back to light on Lancelot, and the annoyed look melted away — he looked surprised, even pleased. Merlin's stomach twisted.

 

"Lancelot," Arthur said, getting to his feet with a smile. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

 

He was still ignoring Merlin entirely, but fortunately Lancelot didn't seem to notice. He bowed his head and knelt as Arthur came around the desk, only to be lifted to his feet by the King and enveloped in a bear hug. "Don't be silly," Arthur said warmly. "It's wonderful to see you. You're back for good, I hope?"

 

Lancelot shook his head. "I'm afraid not, my lord," he said, a little pink from the enthusiasm of Arthur's welcome. Merlin observed with a prickle of irritation that even _embarrassment_ looked good on Lancelot, which struck him as remarkably unfair, but the thought was quickly brushed aside as Lancelot went on. "I came as soon as I could," he said. "Lindisfarne has fallen, and several of the settlements on the coast have been overrun. It seems that the Saxons aren't just here to invade, my lord; they mean to conquer."

 

Arthur's face turned grim. "I've been hearing too many of these tales lately,” he said, motioning for Lancelot to join him by the fire. Merlin followed quietly, not wanting to be shooed from the room. For once he was pleased at Arthur's determination to overlook his existence, since it meant he might get to hear the news that had sent Lancelot riding back to the citadel so urgently. "I knew their raids had been increasing, and that they have proven formidable enemies. But I didn’t realise they intended to take the whole country."

 

"They are ambitious," Lancelot agreed. "But there is more, my lord. While I was there, I witnessed for myself the reason for their arrogance." For some reason he glanced at Merlin, standing back in the shadows. Arthur followed his gaze. 

 

"Ah," he said, as if just realising Merlin was there. “I didn’t realise we had company. That will be all, thank you, Merlin.”

 

Merlin felt his cheeks flame at the obviousness of the dismissal. He could see the shock in Lancelot's face. He bowed stiffly from the waist, and made to leave, only to be called back by Lancelot's voice. "Forgive my impertinence, sire," the knight said, glancing from Arthur - who was looking resolutely into the fire — to Merlin and back again. "Only, would it not be beneficial for Merlin to hear the news as well? His input has been valuable in the past — "

 

"I'm sure he has other duties to attend to," Arthur said, still not looking at Merlin, whose chest was beginning to ache from the effort of forcing himself not to cry. "In any case, if I have need of his advice I need not go far in order to consult him."

 

The tone of his voice implied just how unlikely it was that this would happen. Lancelot looked increasingly bewildered. "Well, yes," he said. "But —Arthur — "

 

"It's fine, Lance," Merlin said quietly. "I should be getting back to Gaius now anyway."

 

He turned on his heel and left, shutting the double doors behind him and leaning against them with his breath coming harsh and thick in his throat. He scrubbed a hand across his face, for a moment hating Arthur, and magic, and destiny in equal measure. Then he straightened up. Just because Arthur wanted to shut him out didn’t mean he was going to stand by and let him do it, not when Lancelot had hinted that his magic might be needed to protect the kingdom. He would just have to find another way of getting information, that was all. He smiled a little at the irony. If Arthur was determined to treat him like a spy, then a spy was what he was going to have to become.

 

 

\+     +     +

 

 

Arthur waited until the door had closed and he heard Merlin’s footsteps walking away down the corridor before he turned back to Lancelot. The knight was still watching him, a mixture of confusion and genuine effrontery in his expression, and to forestall any comment Arthur turned back towards the fire and picked up the poker, stirring the logs rather more vigorously than he intended. “You said there was more,” he said, bypassing the subject of Merlin altogether. “What did you see?”

 

“Magic, my lord.” Was it his imagination, or did Lancelot sound just a shade less respectful than he had a few moments before? “The Saxons were led by sorcerers.”

 

This much Arthur had already guessed. “How many?”

 

“I counted at least five, but there could have been more. Sire, they were coordinating with the soldiers — setting fire to arrows, collapsing walls to breach the gates — they were quite efficient. The Abbott tried, but it took only moments before we were defenceless.”

 

“I was afraid of this,” Arthur admitted, running a hand through his hair. “There have been reports before, but none of them hinted at this kind of organisation. What you saw speaks of long practice, or at least a certain level of training with magical warfare in mind.”

 

Lancelot nodded, but he still looked vaguely uncomfortable, and Arthur felt a chill of foreboding run down his spine. Clearly that wasn’t all the knight had to tell him. “What is it?”

 

“It’s only a rumour,” Lancelot said. He glanced down. “That is, I heard it from one of the villagers who took sanctuary with us after the first of the raids, and he had it from someone else, so I don’t know how true it may be.”

 

“I understand. Tell me.”

 

“You have to realise,” Lancelot continued earnestly. “If it hadn’t been for this information, I would have remained at the monastery to defend it, even when all seemed hopeless. But the Abbott and I agreed that you had to be informed — “

 

“Lancelot!” Arthur interrupted, losing patience. He took a calming breath. “Since you went to such lengths to bring me this information,” he said, striving for composure. “Perhaps you could actually deliver it while we are still young?”

 

“Right. Sorry.” Lancelot fidgeted, glancing towards the door again, and Arthur wondered whether he was worried about being overheard, or if he was thinking of Merlin again. A vague suspicion started up in the back of his mind at the thought: Merlin was a sorcerer, and Lancelot’s news involved, not unnaturally, an attack by sorcery. Was it possible he wanted Merlin to hear this, for some reason? But he didn’t get the chance to pursue the connection before Lance drew in a breath and blurted, “We think the Saxons are working with Morgana.”

 

Arthur felt himself go pale. “What? What evidence do you have of such an accusation?”

 

“Very little, Sire, as I said, but…there have been reports that a woman matching her description has been seen coming in and out of the Saxon camp at all hours, speaking to the chieftains—“ He hesitated. “Training the troops.”

 

The knowledge that he was now facing yet another betrayal sank into Arthur like a stone, and he had to swallow hard before he could speak. “That could be anyone,” he said, though it was more out of habit than because he actually believed it. “The villagers have never met Morgana. They might be mistaken.”

 

“That was my objection also, and the reason I didn’t set out for Camelot immediately upon receiving the news,” Lancelot agreed, nodding. “But when the attack on the monastery came, there was a man among them I am certain I have seen before.”

 

“One of Morgana’s henchmen?”

 

“It was dark, and chaotic, but — I am almost positive.” Lance sounded apologetic. “It was then that I knew I had to escape to warn you. If Morgana is working with the Saxons, there can be no question of her ultimate destination.”

 

Camelot. It always came down to Camelot, with her, and the throne she decided was hers by right, although now it seemed as if she wanted to take the rest of Albion with it. Arthur rubbed a thumb between his brows, feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on. He had known that the Saxons were using magic; that was why he’d decided to meet with the Druids in the first place. He’d hoped to achieve an exchange of favours, to allow magic-users to leave Camelot freely in return for some Druid-wrought protection against a magical incursion. In theory, that would take care of two threats at once — that of internal rebellion, and that of outside invasion — leaving him to concentrate on tracking down his sister in peace. But this information changed everything. He had been expecting a handful of ill-trained, uncoordinated magic-users bent more on rape and pillage than conquest, but if Morgana was involved, he knew, she would not be content until she had used the Saxons’ blood-lust to take away everything he held dear. The awareness of it hurt, the more so now that he knew the lengths to which she would go to achieve it.

 

“Thank you,” he told Lancelot, meaning it. “I know how much it must have cost you to leave your friends in danger in order to bring me this news.”

 

Lancelot gave him a crooked smile. “The Abbott himself commanded me,” he said. “Or else I’m not sure I could have gone. He smuggled me out through one of the old tunnels in the cellar.”

 

Arthur nodded. “Did anyone survive?”

 

Lance’s expression was eloquent enough. He shook his head.

 

“I’m sorry.” 

 

“As am I. They were good men, and brave ones, though there wasn’t a knight amongst them.”

 

“You will have to tell us all about them,” Arthur said, getting to his feet. “Come, you must be tired and hungry, and I want to hear the details of your escape. I’ll have a chamber prepared for you for tonight, and you can dine with us later when you are clean and rested.”

 

Lancelot bowed low. “Thank you, my lord.”

 

“And none of that my lord nonsense,” Arthur added, striding ahead of him to pull open the door. “You're a friend, Lancelot. Call me Arthur.”

 

“Arthur.” Lancelot smiled. Then he paused for a moment before leaving. “If I may ask…Has Merlin done something to offend you? Only he seemed a little out of sorts earlier.” Tactfully, he didn’t mention Arthur’s brusque ejection of Merlin from his chambers, but it was clear the matter was in the forefront of his mind. Arthur wanted to tell him that no, Merlin had only been keeping a dangerous and highly treasonous secret from him for almost a decade now, a secret that might undermine everything Arthur had built and which would, at best, lead to Merlin’s own exile from Camelot, and why on earth would Arthur be offended about something like that? But he recalled his suspicions from earlier and bit his tongue. It was possible Lance already knew about Merlin’s secret, which meant that he wasn’t altogether trustworthy either. In any case, it was better to be safe than sorry.

 

“Of course not,” he said, favouring the knight with a tight little smile. “I imagine he’s just upset about all the extra work the negotiations have brought him. You know what Merlin is like.”

 

“Of course, sire.” Lancelot said politely, although his tone suggested he wasn’t altogether convinced. “I’m sure that’s all it was.”

 

 

 

 

Dinner that evening was an awkward affair, made all the more so by the fact that Arthur had been forced to allow Merlin to serve it, the other servants being otherwise occupied taking care of their political guests. Since it was only the four of them, and hardly what one might call a formal dinner, Lancelot was his usual friendly self and kept attempting to draw Merlin into the conversation; what was worse, Guinevere seemed to be intent on helping him.

 

“It’s been far too long since I was in Camelot,” Lancelot said, as Merlin poured him a glass of wine. “Hasn’t it, Merlin? I didn’t realise how long until I met him on the road and he scarcely recognised me.”

 

Merlin offered him a quick smile, but said nothing, so Guinevere picked up the slack. “I find that hard to believe,” she said, smiling warmly at Arthur’s manservant. “The two of you were always such good friends, if I recall. Did you really not recognise him, Merlin?”

 

Unable to avoid answering, Merlin flicked a glance at Arthur before looking back down at the table. “He had his hood up, my lady. It’s not so much that I didn’t recognise him as that I couldn’t see his face to recognise it.” 

 

This made Guinevere laugh, and at any other time Arthur might have been tempted to smile as well, but under the circumstances the response only made him more irritated. In an effort to redirect the conversation, he said, “Merlin’s memory is hardly the most reliable, but I agree that it has been too long. I’m glad to see you back, even if it is under such dire circumstances.” He tipped glass briefly towards the knight, who copied him with a gracious nod. “But you promised to tell us about your time at Lindisfarne. What was it like there? I can’t imagine you found it very entertaining.”

 

“Yes, do tell us about it,” Guinevere echoed. She shot Arthur a look which told him she knew exactly what he was doing and that he would pay for it later, and added pointedly, “Merlin was telling me that they had quite a collection of manuscripts in the library there, isn’t that right, Merlin?”

 

And so it went. Merlin, for his part, seemed as disinclined to talk as Arthur was to listen to him, so Guinevere and Lancelot carried most of the conversation while Arthur sat back and ate his meal in silence, content to observe the two of them together. Arthur was not so blind as to have missed the way Lance’s expression had changed upon seeing her, nor the way Guinevere herself had blushed and put a hand to her swollen stomach, as if instinctively moved to hide the evidence of their fruitful union from her former beau. Still, he was fairly confident that in this, at least, he could trust to their integrity. Lancelot was too loyal, and Guinevere to circumspect to ever make a fool of him in such a way, of that much he was certain. What was more interesting was the interaction between Lancelot and Merlin. At one point during the meal, Arthur was sure he saw Lancelot catch Merlin’s eye and tip his head towards the king, a clear question in his gaze. Merlin had shaken his head, caught Arthur watching them and then busied himself serving the cook’s latest marzipan creation that was to be their dessert, acting as if it required all of his attention to carry the elegant confection safely to their table — which, to be fair, it probably did. Only his blazing red cheeks and pursed mouth gave away that there was anything untoward about the exchange.

 

This little tete-a-tete seemed to cement Arthur’s supposition that Lance was aware of Merlin's secret, or at the very least knew he had something to hide. The thought made the betrayal sting all the more bitterly, and when Lance begged off early, claiming a need to catch up on his rest, Arthur did not make more than a token protest at his leaving them so soon. Instead, he agreed that they all needed their sleep, and dismissed Merlin for the night as well, forcing himself to be civil under his wife’s watchful gaze. Merlin kept his eyes on his feet, and seemed grateful for the opportunity, which only made Arthur resent him all the more. No doubt he would go straight to visit with Lancelot, the king thought acidly. The two of them would have a lot to catch up on. Unless... Perhaps it was no coincidence that the knight had turned up in Camelot when he did, spinning stories of magical peril. Perhaps it was all a ploy so that Merlin, having revealed himself to be a sorcerer, could get back into Arthur's good graces by saving the day in some spectacular fashion. He resolved to keep the two of them safely occupied at opposite ends of the castle come morning.

 

“You shouldn’t be so hard on him,” Guinevere said, when the two of them were finally left alone. “I’m sure he had his reasons for not confiding in you.”

 

“No doubt,” Arthur said. “Just as I have my reasons for no longer confiding in him.”

 

The queen sighed. “Arthur.”

 

“What? If I have to accept that he can have secrets from me, he should have to accept that I can keep secrets from him. I _am_ the king, after all.”

 

“You're being childish.” She shot him a look of reproach by way of the mirror, and stepped away to strip into her underthings, tidying them away neatly out of what he assumed was force of habit. “I can’t help thinking, if it were anyone else, you wouldn’t be behaving quite so irrationally. You’re the king, Arthur, and Merlin’s been your servant since he was a boy. Even if he is your friend, you have to realise that the difference between you is a barrier to total honesty, however much the two of you might wish it otherwise.”

 

Arthur couldn’t help flinching a little at that. He was well aware that Guinevere was speaking from experience, and that the queen knew better than anyone else what misunderstandings such a difference in rank might bring. Only, he had always assumed that Merlin at least was blithely oblivious to the hierarchies of the court, especially when it came to the friendship between them. The friendship he had _thought_ lay between them. He supposed he ought to have known.

 

“I know he’s your friend too,” he said finally. “And I won’t stand in the way of that. But sometimes — there are some things that I find difficult to forgive. Even for Merlin.”

 

“I see,” she said, her lips pursed. “After all, it’s not as if he hasn’t saved your life countless times — or drunk poison for you on occasion — or been your best friend for years in spite of the fact that you routinely made his life miserable — “

 

“For which I am duly grateful, believe me,” Arthur snapped. “But none of which entitles him to run around carte blanche, doing whatever he pleases!”

 

The look Guinevere shot him was disappointed. “And you wonder why he doesn’t confide in you,” she said. “Do you really trust him so little, after all this time?”

 

Arthur fell silent, unable to answer. Of course, Guinevere didn’t know what it was Merlin had been hiding, nor what it could possibly mean for him and the kingdom. Even Arthur himself did not yet fully comprehend the implications, or understand how deep Merlin’s secret went. How powerful was he, exactly? Had he ever used his magic on Arthur? And even if he hadn’t, how could Arthur convince himself of that, let alone the rest of the court? He wanted to explain as much to Gwen, but found that he couldn’t. This was between him and Merlin, and possibly Lancelot; it wasn’t something she needed to be involved in.

 

“In any case, it was good to see Lancelot again,” he said, deliberately changing the subject. "He seems much the same as ever."

 

Guinevere’s face lit up with pleasure. “Yes, he does.” She turned away to finish undressing, apparently accepting the altered topic, although she wouldn’t look at him. “Although I am sorry about Lindisfarne. It sounded as if he lost many friends there.” She went in search of her nightgown. “What are you planning to do about Morgana?”

 

“I don’t know,” Arthur admitted. “It does put us in a rather more precarious position, as far as the Druids are concerned.”

 

“Do you think they know?”

 

“Not yet.” Arthur stepped out of his pants and pulled his nightshirt over his head, distracted. “At least, Aerys seemed surprised when he found out about the Saxons, and I can’t see them jeopardising the possibility of a repeal on the ban without good reason. But I’m going to have to tell them. This kind of information could fundamentally damage our relationship if they find out I’ve been keeping it from them.”

 

“Mm.” Guinevere made a noncommittal sound, and he glanced at her.

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing,” she said. “I agree, you need to tell them. It’s only fair, after all.”

 

“But?” 

 

“I don’t know. Nothing. It’s just, from what you told me, it seems that Lance isn’t certain Morgana is involved, only that it’s possible she could be.”

 

Arthur raised his eyebrows, feeling unaccountably pleased that she wasn’t taking Lancelot’s news at face value. “Are you saying you don’t think Morgana is involved?”

 

“No -- I mean, she might be.” Guinevere shook her head. “It’s only that, given that the information is so important, oughtn’t we to make absolutely certain it’s correct before we pass it on?”

 

Arthur stared at her for a long moment, and she looked back at him innocently, waiting. A slow grin spread across Arthur’s face, and he abandoned the bed-covers he had been about to turn down in favour of catching her up in a smacking kiss. “Guinevere, you’re a genius,” he said. “Of course we can’t tell the Druids until we know for certain. That would be highly irresponsible of us.”

 

“It would be most unfortunate if it were to turn out to be incorrect,” she said, giving him a small smile. “Especially since it would be so significant to their negotiating position. And if it happened to buy us a little more time…”

 

Arthur kissed her again, more gentle this time, and set about unpinning her hair, running his hands through the soft curls as they came down to frame her face. “A genius,” he repeated, with quiet pride. “We’ll make a courtier out of you yet.”

 

“I’m not entirely sure that’s a compliment, my lord,” Guinevere said tartly. “But I’ll take it in the spirit in which it was meant.”

 

 

\+     +     +

 

 

Merlin was not at the Council meeting the next morning. Gwen supposed that, in retrospect, she shouldn’t have expected to see him there given Arthur’s stubborn determination to shut him out of everything at the moment, but she had to admit that such a departure from the norm still unsettled her. The baby in her belly was unsettled too, seeming to pick up on his mother’s mood as he shifted restlessly in her womb, and it was all she could do to sit still while Arthur relayed Lancelot’s news to the assembled courtiers and explained what it meant for their negotiations with the Druids. Lancelot himself was quiet, chipping in where necessary to add the requested details but otherwise keeping his own counsel, seemingly tired and a little withdrawn. Gwen felt her heart go out to him. He seemed as ill at ease among these powerful men as she was.

 

“You will understand, then,” Arthur said, leaning forward and bracing himself on the rounded edge of the table as he came to the end of the tale. “Why I felt it necessary to call you together at such short notice. We must act quickly. If Morgana _is_ involved with the Saxons, then Camelot is in even greater danger than we anticipated.”

 

“If?” One of the Lords queried — Gwen thought his name was Ranulf. “Does that mean you’re not certain?”

 

Arthur glanced at Gwen and smiled. “As Queen Guinevere was quick to point out, all we have right now is hearsay, albeit from at least one trusted source. I don’t want to bring this to the Druids until I know for sure, otherwise we risk jeopardising our position over nothing but rumour. To that end, she has suggested we wait to divulge this information until we are certain Morgana is involved.”

 

Ranulf looked at Gwen as well, although his expression was less benign than that of her husband. “Are you sure that’s wise, my lord? Waiting might give the impression that we have something to hide.”

 

“I agree,” said a noble to his right. “With all due respect, such a course hardly seems honourable.”

 

Gwen felt herself flush at the implication. “That wasn’t my intention," she said, her voice stiff. “But to insist on undermining negotiations based on what amounts to little more than a glimpse in the dark, simply because of a point of _honour_ — “

 

“That’s hardly fair,” Ranulf interrupted, overriding her. Gwen felt Arthur tense beside her, and put her hand on his sleeve. “We have the word of a knight. Are you suggesting that Sir Lancelot is lying?”

 

“Not lying, no.” Gwen replied. “However, he may have been mistaken.”

 

Ranulf made a disbelieving noise, but Lancelot spoke up before he could comment. “With respect, my lords,” he said. “There is more than honour at stake here.” He caught Gwen’s eye and set his jaw. “I agree with the Queen. It is in our interests to be certain before we decide to act.”

 

Gwen felt a warm flutter in her chest at this gallant show of support, and had to duck her head to hide her smile. She saw Arthur glance around at the assembly beside her, challenging them all with his eyes. “Honourable or not, it certainly seems pragmatic,” he said briskly, when no one else spoke up. “For which reason I sent out a scouting party early this morning. Their task is to track down the Saxon raiding party and follow them, to watch for any intervention from Morgana. They will report back in six weeks to let us know what they find.”

 

Ranulf looked surprised. “Wasn’t that a little hasty?” he asked. “When you hadn’t even spoken to the Council?”

 

“I wasn’t aware that I needed your permission, Lord Ranulf,” Arthur said coolly. “But by all means, tell me what you would have done in my stead. I would hate to be thought precipitous.”

 

But Ranulf obviously realised he had crossed a line, as instead of replying he bowed his head. “Forgive me,” he said. “I meant no disrespect. I only wondered why Your Majesty saw fit to call this meeting if it wasn’t to ask for our advice.”

 

“As for that,” Arthur smiled, looking inordinately pleased with himself. “I’m inviting you all on a hunting trip.”

 

 

 

Some hours later, Gwen nearly groaned out loud with relief when the Council meeting finally ended and she was free to leave. Determined not to show any weakness, however, she waited until Lancelot the other courtiers had filed out of the meeting hall before she got to her feet and stretched, hearing the joints of her spine crack in protest at having been so stiff for so long. Arthur watched her, an expression of amusement on his face.

 

“Glad to be done?” he asked, smiling.

 

“Very,” Gwen said. “How on earth can you stand to sit there and listen to them for so long? All they ever seem to do is argue and insult one another.”

 

“Ah, you forget that I’ve been in training since I was a child,” he said, getting to his feet and coming over to her, his hands settling warmly onto her shoulders. He dug his thumbs into her aching muscles, seeking out the knots of tension. “You get used to it. After a while it will cease to bother you any more than it does me.”

 

“Right," Gwen said. “Which is why I had to stop you from punching that man when he interrupted me earlier. Because you were so indifferent.”

 

“As for that,” Arthur scowled. “Lord Ranulf is an old friend of my father’s, and he thinks because he has one of the largest estates in Camelot he is entitled to a lot more respect than I am inclined to give him. He also,” he added, after a momentary pause. “Thinks servants are a lesser breed of human who have no business being involved in government.”

 

Gwen sighed, and slumped her shoulders. She had known Ranulf looked down on her, and had guessed at the reason why, but that didn’t mean that having it confirmed didn’t make her feel somewhat discouraged. After everything she and Arthur had done — were still doing — to bring equality to the kingdom, it still seemed like a far-away dream.

 

“Perhaps it would have been better if you hadn’t told them it was my idea to wait,” she said, moving away from him. The massage felt so good, but for some reason she felt the need to speak with him face to face. She didn’t want to feel like a woman just now; she wanted to feel like a queen. “They might have liked it better if it came only from you.”

 

“I couldn’t do that!” He looked surprised, as if it hadn’t occurred to him that she might not want the credit for the idea. “It was your suggestion.”

 

“Well, yes,” Gwen said. She remembered his praise the night before with a glow of pride, but pushed on. “Only, I can’t help feeling that Lord Ranulf and his friends wouldn’t have objected half as strongly if you hadn’t mentioned that part of the story.”

 

Arthur smiled. “Don’t let them intimidate you,” he said, chucking her chin affectionately. “They need to see that you are as capable as I am, and that you’re willing to pull your own weight. If this comes to a war with the Saxons, you may need to govern alone for a time while I’m away fighting. Best you get in some practice now, let them get used to you.”

 

Gwen smiled back at him, but couldn’t help feeling patronised by the gesture anyway. Arthur didn’t seem to understand that gaining the Lords’ respect was a little more complicated for her than simply coming up with some good ideas and standing by them; but of course, how could he? He’d been born to this, raised to be a king since his first breath. He had no idea what it was like to be considered less-than simply because he’d been born the wrong sex or class. In that regard he had been lucky.

 

“Perhaps you’re right,” was all she said. “I just hope they won’t blame me if it ends up going wrong.”

 

Arthur tilted his head at her. “Unfortunately, they will _always_ blame you,” he said. “That’s what being royalty is all about. It’s our responsibility, all of it, even the things that are out of our control. I thought you understood that.”

 

There was nothing accusatory in his tone; he was trying to be helpful, Gwen guessed, but that didn’t make it any less annoying. “Of course,” she said, forcing a smile. “But don’t you think that’s a little excessive? We’re human beings, not gods, after all. We can’t be responsible for _everything_.”

 

Her husband only shrugged. 

 

“Can’t we?” he said. He offered her his arm, and after a moment she took it, wondering if she would ever understand the nobility as long as she lived, let alone fit in with them. She was beginning to suspect that the answer was definitely _no_. 


	3. Chapter 3

T H R E E

 

 

 

 

Winter was coming on apace. When Merlin woke the next morning, he found the back stairs of the castle rimed with frost, the sky burgeoning with low-bellied clouds that threatened snow before the day was out. He hurried to Arthur’s chambers to stoke up the fire, relieved to see it hadn’t gone out during the night, and with stiff fingers unfastened the hangings at the windows to let the light in, cursing when his efforts only seemed to make things more tangled and confused.

 

With the curtains open, he could see that Gwen had already risen and gone to do whatever it was that women did in the mornings, leaving her husband still abed. It was something she did more often than not, these days, although Merlin wasn’t sure whether it was out of some kind of retroactive shyness or whether she was simply accustomed to being an early riser. There was talk downstairs that Arthur had tired of her, or she of him, or that she thought herself above the ordinary servants and would let none of them wait on her, but Merlin knew better than to give credence to kitchen gossip. In any case, it made his job easier, so he was hardly going to complain.

 

Usually, Arthur was difficult and surly when woken so early, but this morning he seemed in a better temper, apparently out of anticipation of a day spent happily killing whatever innocent forest creatures wandered unwittingly into his path. He said nothing while Merlin dressed him, and seemed courteously oblivious to the fact that Merlin’s fingers on his lacings were about as nimble as those of an arthritic old man, although Merlin did catch him frowning at them once while he was doing up the King’s boots, as if they made him think of something he would much rather forget.

 

“All done,” Merlin said, when he’d finally finished the last of the fastenings. He smoothed the breast of Arthur’s tunic unnecessarily and stepped back, only to look up and find Arthur watching him steadily, his gaze unreadable. So unexpected was this unwavering attention after so long being treated as part of the furniture that Merlin flinched, and this made Arthur look away, scowling.

 

“There are some old gloves you can have in the trunk by the window,” he said, although somehow Merlin had the impression that this was not what he had meant to say at all. “They’ll need mending, but they’re better than nothing.”

 

Merlin bowed. “Thank you, sire.”

 

Arthur waited, eyebrows raised, and Merlin realised he was expected to fetch the gloves immediately. He crossed the room to the trunk, aware of Arthur’s eyes on him, and retrieved the gloves from their storage space. They were beautifully made, cut from a fine calf-skin leather with almost invisible stitching and lined with creamy white fleece. One of the fingers had a small hole in it but they were otherwise in excellent condition, far too good to be giving away. Merlin turned to Arthur in shock, only to find the King had crossed to the bed and was now ignoring him again in favour of selecting his favourite hunting knife from those Merlin had laid out for him. 

 

“Arthur — “ Merlin began, uncertain. Perhaps the King only meant the gloves to be a loan? Or was this some kind of apology for his recent behaviour? But Arthur seemed determined to give him no opportunity to speak, and immediately overrode him, raising his voice so that it drowned out Merlin’s words.

 

“This one, I think,” he said, pointing. Merlin hurried across the room to pick up the dagger, the gloves still clutched in his other hand. He put them down on the bed and reached for the knife, but Arthur caught his wrist and stopped him. 

 

“I want you in the East Wing today,” he said, not meeting Merlin’s eyes. “Geoffrey needs some assistance sorting through what remains of the library, and I told him you would be happy to help.”

 

The East Wing had been the section of the castle hardest-hit by Morgana’s most recent attack and was still in the process of reconstruction. The work had been proceeding at a snail’s pace, as the foundations were thought to be unsound and the stonemasons had warned that extreme care would be necessary to avoid further damage or injury. The cold weather had slowed things down even more, and Merlin immediately understood Arthur’s offer of the gloves; at least part of the East Wing was still exposed to the elements, and on a day like today it was likely to be utterly freezing. The less than appealing prospect of picking through charred and soggy volumes in the cold with Geoffrey of Monmouth breathing down his neck was not what made Merlin protest, however.

 

“But  — the hunt,” he said, brows drawing together. “Won’t you need me to saddle the horses? I thought you wanted to set off early.”

 

“I do,” Arthur said. “And I will. But I’ve already asked one of the stablehands to saddle Llamrei instead.” He paused, and let go of Merlin’s wrist. “I wont be needing your services today.”

 

Merlin stood stock still for a moment. “Oh,” he said. “I see.”

 

He turned to pick up the dagger again, and slid it into the sheath at Arthur’s belt without really seeing it, trying to tamp down the unreasoning hurt that Arthur’s casual dismissal had provoked. To his credit, the King had broken the news rather more gently than he could have done, but that didn’t make it any less of an insult. Worse, it was a courtier’s insult, subtle and calculated, the sort of thing Merlin would once upon a time have thought beneath Arthur's notice, and certainly contrary to his usual forthright character. 

 

He finished gathering the rest of the King’s things in silence, helped him into his coat and then stood back, clasping his hands behind his back.

 

“Will that be all, my lord?” He asked politely, keeping his eyes averted. He could play this game as well as anyone, even if he usually chose not to bother.

 

“Yes, Merlin. You may go.”

 

Merlin bowed, and left as quickly as he could. He hoped Arthur would realise that he’d deliberately left the gloves behind, and understand the gesture as a response in kind, as petty as that might be. But he rather suspected the King wouldn’t notice. Arthur had a habit of overlooking things that were right in front of his face, after all. 

 

 

 

 

Some hours later, standing hip-deep in the crumbling remnants of the old library, Merlin was bitterly regretting his decision to spite Arthur by rejecting his gift. The East Wing was colder than he had imagined, the pages of the destroyed books crackling with ice and damp, the missing stone wall giving entrance to a cutting wind. Worse still, however, was the expression of heartbreak on Geoffrey’s bearded face as he sifted slowly through what remained of the volumes he had been so proud of. Merlin, who after several hours of backbreaking labour could barely feel his extremities and who had become blessedly numb to the more physical kinds of pain, found the old man’s obvious grief at the loss of so many irreplaceable items to be almost worse than the cold, and made a mental note to ask Gwen to begin collecting new books to refill the library as soon as she was able. 

 

The morning passed by in a haze, and it wasn’t until nearly lunch time that Merlin came across something which made him suddenly reconsider why Arthur might have decided to send him here, instead of taking him along on the hunt with him as usual. He was sifting through a pile of blackened fragments when he felt a slight jolt run through his body, the hair on the back of his neck and arms standing up for reasons that had nothing to do with the cold. After checking quickly to see if he was being observed, Merlin reached into the debris and pulled out a small, slim volume bound in pale leather that seemed eerily untouched by the destruction around it. The book practically vibrated with magic, and after a moment’s hesitation, in which he made absolutely certain that Geoffrey was out of sight behind a fallen beam half-way across the room, Merlin tucked the book into his tunic and settled it flush against his chest, the flat rectangle unaccountably warm against the quickened beat of his heart. 

 

Had Arthur known, or suspected, that there would be magical books in the library? Was that why he had wanted Merlin there, just in case? Or was that only wishful thinking? Merlin longed to be able to ask the King himself about it, but Arthur would be away with the hunt for a few days at least, and in any case he was more likely to change the subject, or continue ignoring him, than he was to give Merlin a straight answer. Still, the possibility cheered him, and he went back to his task with renewed vigour, no longer minding the cold quite so much. Perhaps Gaius had been right — perhaps Arthur would come around eventually, if he waited long enough.  

 

Between Geoffrey’s anguish and his own preoccupation, Merlin was quite exhausted when the librarian finally gave him permission to break for lunch, and he all but fell down the stairs in his haste to reach the kitchens. The cook took one look at him and bundled him up next to the hearth with a bowl of thick stew and a chunk of bread to keep his strength up, for which Merlin thanked her with chattering teeth. While he ate, he sat so close to the fire it hurt, and twice almost set his tunic ablaze without realising it, but in time the rich food and warmth did their work and he could at least move his fingers again, though the tip of his nose remained numb. He was just beginning to think regretfully of returning to his duties when Lancelot pushed open the door and spotted him.

 

“Merlin! There you are,” he said, smiling as he approached the fire. “I was wondering where you’d got to.”

 

“I thought you’d be off with the hunt,” Merlin said in some surprise. “Arthur said you were invited, didn’t he?”

 

“Yes, he did,” Lancelot said, shrugging as he pulled up a stool. “But I told him I was still tired from my journey, and begged off at the last moment.” He frowned. “I could tell he wasn’t best pleased about it, but to tell you the truth I really wanted the chance to speak to you.”

 

“To me?” Merlin raised his eyebrows. “What about?”

 

Lancelot glanced around the crowded kitchen. No one was really paying much attention to them, being embroiled in preparations for the evening meal, but even so Lance leaned a little closer, taking care to lower his voice. 

 

“I wanted your opinion on what I saw at Lindisfarne.”

 

“I don’t understand," Merlin said, frowning. “What did you see at Lindisfarne?”

 

“Didn’t Arthur tell you?” Lancelot looked confused. “I saw — or rather, I thought I saw — one of Morgana’s men, fighting with the Saxons. I wanted to see what you thought — whether it’s likely they’ve joined forces to conquer Camelot, and if so, what we can do about it.”

 

Merlin stared at the knight for a long moment, some of the chill returning to his veins in spite of the roaring fire and the stolen book nestled against him. He knew Lance could see the shock on his face and would understand what it meant, and was fairly certain he could guess what his next question was going to be. He looked over at the other servants again and decided that the kitchen was definitely not the place for this conversation.

 

“Come on,” he said, getting to his feet. He caught Lance’s arm and tugged him out into the hall, down the corridor and into one of the closest storage rooms, which was empty now except for some tightly sealed barrels and sacks of grain. Lancelot followed willingly in his wake, and had enough presence of mind to bolt the door behind them before he turned expectantly to face Merlin.

 

“Well?”

 

“Arthur knows,” Merlin said, without preamble. “About my magic, I mean.”

 

It was almost comical, watching the expressions chase each other across Lancelot’s face. He looked astonished; then comprehending; then vexed; and finally, to Merlin’s surprise, relieved. 

 

“I suppose that explains why he wouldn’t let you stay to hear my story,” he said. “And why he didn’t repeat it to you afterwards. I take it he reacted badly.”

 

“He was angry,” Merlin admitted. “He found out by accident, the day the Druids arrived, and he just — stopped talking to me. It’s like I don’t exist.”

 

Merlin’s voice wavered on the last word, Arthur’s cold rejection on that fateful morning coming back to him in a rush. Lancelot obviously caught his emotion because he said, quite gently, “I’m sure it's not that bad,” and led Merlin over to the pile of grain sacks, where he made him sit down and tell him the entire story. Merlin felt a little guilty unloading all of his problems onto Lance when he knew the knight was still grieving for the friends he’d lost at the monastery, and no doubt for his relationship with Gwen as well, but he found once he started talking about it he couldn't stop until the whole tale had come spilling out between them. Talking helped, even if he knew there wasn’t much Lancelot could do about the situation beyond lending a sympathetic ear.

 

“And so I don’t know what to do,” he concluded finally. “I’ve tried talking to him about it, but he won’t listen. He doesn’t want to hear about it, or think about it, or — ”

 

“Have you spoken to Gaius?” Lancelot asked. “What does he think you should do?”

 

Merlin scowled. “Gaius is too busy being angry with me for getting caught in the first place,” he said. “He thinks I’m being foolish, and that Arthur will come around when he’s ready to forgive me. I wasn’t so sure at first, but after the library I’m starting to hope that maybe he’s right, and I just have to be patient.”

 

Lancelot nodded.

 

“Sometimes,” he said. “When the people we love disappoint us, getting a bit of distance is the only way we can figure out how to make sense of things.”

 

A bit of distance. Like moving half way across the country to live in a monastery? Merlin wanted to ask, but didn’t quite dare. He had never been entirely clear on what had passed between Lance and Gwen the last time Lancelot had been in Camelot; it had seemed too private and painful somehow to inquire into, although he had often wondered. Whatever it was, it had snuffed out the greater part of the light in Gwen’s eyes for a long time afterwards, and even when she had walked down the aisle to marry Arthur it had been an occasion more of dignity and solemnity than whole-hearted joy. For the first time, he wondered if Lancelot had been the same, off on his lonely pilgrimage, and whether the distance he sought had brought with it any clarity. He suspected it had not.

 

“Are you sure the Saxons are working with Morgana?” he asked, after a moment, thinking of Arthur and his priorities and reverting to the more important topic. “It doesn’t seem like her, somehow, to hand the possibility of power over to someone else.”

 

“Not entirely sure,” Lance said. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you about it. Arthur’s sent out some scouts to see if they can learn anything, but I thought you might have some other way of finding out.” He wriggled his fingers and widened his eyes. “You know. Magically.”

 

Merlin snorted. “Magic,” he said, imitating Lancelot’s gesture. “Doesn’t always work that way. But there might be some useful spells in that book I found this morning; I suppose I could always give it a try.”

 

Lance nodded, and clasped his arm. “The sooner we know what Morgana’s up to, the better,” he said seriously. “Arthur is in a precarious position now, perhaps more than he realises. If the baby is a boy, then Morgana will soon be cut out of the succession permanently; it’s in her best interests to attack before that happens. The Saxons, too, would likely prefer to attack while the future is uncertain. They’ve already taken several of the border realms, and they’re not going to be content with conquering Albion piecemeal. I wouldn’t be surprised to find Camelot at war before the spring is out.”

 

“So soon?” Merlin asked with dismay. No wonder Arthur had been so stressed out about the Druids’ visit. Merlin hadn’t realised the situation was quite so dire. “And if they’re working together…” It would mean war on two fronts, with Camelot caught in the middle and hopelessly underprepared.

 

“Let us hope they’re not,” Lancelot said grimly. But the look he exchanged with Merlin suggested that he thought it was a slim hope, at best. 

 

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

 

The Winter Hunt was one of Arthur’s favourite courtly traditions. Unlike the first hunt of spring, where the entire court turned out for the event and the ride became more of a leisurely picnic, the Winter Hunt was the last chance for the citadel to stock up on fresh meat before the encroaching snow made proper hunting parties all but impossible, and was therefore a far more businesslike affair. Arthur chose his best courser, at the moment the mare Llamrei, and rode out with a select party of huntsmen for what often amounted to several days hard travel through the icy woods, checking traps and chasing game, until the weather made it necessary to return to the citadel to hunker down for the winter to come. 

 

As a boy, Arthur had loved the sensation of galloping through the gates into the frozen countryside, the brisk wind stinging his cheeks and lifting his hair as he rode. The Winter Hunt had signified a rare day or two of freedom, perhaps his last until the thaw, and he had always gone out to meet it gladly, leaving whatever troubled him behind at the castle gates. Today, however, his joy was tempered by the knowledge that he was barely a year into his reign as king and already beset by both internal and external conflict. War with the Saxons was inevitable, with Morgana unavoidable, and he would usually have been grimly optimistic about the possibility of an engagement with both or either were it not for the sense of discord within his own court. If there was anything he had learned from Uther, it was that a house divided against itself could not stand, and already he felt as if the foundations of his life were shifting under him, overturning things he had once believed certain and dissolving ties he had once thought indestructible. Part of that was the business with Merlin, of course, but equally troubling was the situation with the Druids. Arthur had hoped, perhaps naively, that if he were to lead the way then the majority of his courtiers would eventually come around to the idea of fighting fire with fire, and using magic as a tool to beat back the Saxon invaders. While none of them had come right out and said so to his face, however, he sensed that many of the nobles were becoming restive, and this latest news about Morgana had made many of them distrust their magical visitors more fervently than ever.

 

After Merlin had left his chambers that morning, Arthur had taken his time making his way down to the assembly, wanting to give the hunting party time to collect their mounts. Having met briefly with Jerome, the huntsman, and agreed with him how best to conduct the morning’s proceedings, Arthur left his man to organise the relays and instead made his way to the courtyards. He had arrived to find the majority of his Councilmen grouped together in the courtyard, their horses blowing steam into the crisp morning air, while the Druids congregated in a ragtag bunch directly opposite, all of them talking quietly amongst themselves. The division boded ill for the new alliance, that much Arthur could tell at a glance; clearly the two sides still distrusted one another deeply, if even the convivial atmosphere of the hunt couldn’t bring them together as a unit. This suspicion had been confirmed when Arthur had overheard Lord Ranulf in deep discussion with one of the other landowners, a young man named Brody who had recently left off training as a knight in order to take over his deceased father’s estate. Brody had been a decent enough fighter, a little prone to hot-headedness, suitable for the middle ranks but not one of Arthur’s best men, and what was worse, he had known it. The knowledge had made him bitter and inclined to pettiness, and had his family duties not called him away Arthur had been planning on a firm but kindly-meant speech designed to convince the man he was better suited to a different sort of life. He had been relieved not to have to make it. It seemed that coming into his title had not sweetened Brody’s temper, however, for when Arthur approached he heard the younger man exclaiming passionately, “It’s bound to fail — you know that as well as I do! Yet he insists on treating with them as if they were as human as you or I!”

 

Ranulf harrumphed, catching sight of Arthur before Brody did and having the good sense not to respond, but Brody ignored the signal and demanded, “Well? Don’t you agree that something has to be done?”

 

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Arthur said mildly, not wanting to prolong the moment. He caught Ranulf’s eye, and the older man had the grace to look a little embarrassed as he nodded his greeting. Brody turned abruptly in the saddle, startled, but when he looked at Arthur merely lifted his chin and glared. “I hope you’re looking forward to some good sport today?”

 

“Yes, my lord,” Ranulf said. His horse, a lithe bay with white points and an intelligent sort of face, shifted under him, clearly anxious to be off, and he reined it in with one hand, trying to pay attention to both Arthur and the horse at the same time. “With any luck the weather will hold off until we’ve managed to take down a stag or two.”

 

Arthur glanced up at the ominous sky. “From your lips to God’s ears, Lord Ranulf. Although in this case, I think you’re unlikely to get your wish.”

 

Ranulf shrugged, clearly at ease with the prospect of being caught out by the snow. “Then let us pray for better weather tomorrow, Your Majesty.”

 

Arthur smiled, and nodded. He had just turned his attention to Brody, meaning to ask after his mother and the rest of his family, when he caught sight of Lord Aerys crossing the courtyard atop a pretty roan mare, obviously making a beeline for the King. He nudged Llamrei forward to meet him halfway.

 

“Is there something I can do for you, Lord Aerys?”

 

Aerys inclined his head. “My people were wondering whether Your Majesty had given any thought to the logistics of the event, my lord," he said. "I'm not sure whether you are aware, but our beliefs require specific rituals be performed whenever a life is taken for the benefit of another, to honour the animal's sacrifice. My people are worried that you will not wish them to participate due to your father’s opinions on the Old Religion.”

 

"I see," Arthur said. He ought to have anticipated the problem, he realised, but having so little experience with the Old Religion he had not thought to consider it. He glanced at Ranulf and Brody, both of whom looked a little too interested in the conversation, and turned Llamrei towards the gates, gesturing to the Druid leader to follow. When they had moved some little distance away, he said quietly, “I have no objection to whatever rituals you wish to perform, Your Grace, at least not in principle. To reduce the possibility of misunderstanding, however, I would ask that you refrain from using magic as far as possible, and that you discuss your beliefs with us, so that we may better understand each other.”

 

Aerys seemed pleased with this response, for he smiled, and agreed. “I would be honoured, my lord,” he said. “If you would care to ride beside me, I will do my best to instruct you on our ways and answer any questions you may have about our religion.”

 

 

 

 

Which was how Arthur ended up heading a column of mingled Druids and courtiers, Aerys riding beside him and a little behind, regaling him and some of the curious knights within earshot with a potted history of Druidic culture.

 

“The first thing you should understand is that we do not have any fixed belief system, as you do,” Aerys began. “That is, we do not have any holy books or scriptures, and we do not all believe the same thing.”

 

“Doesn’t that make things difficult?” Sir Leon asked, from his position a little way behind Aerys. “How do you know which one of you is right?”

 

Aerys smiled. “For us it is not so much about right and wrong,” he said. “We each have a personal relationship with the Great Spirit. The precise form it takes doesn’t really matter. Some of us, for example, believe that there are many gods — as many as the number of trees in a forest, as many as there are blades of grass. Others, like myself, believe in two spirits, a God and a Goddess, between whom the balance of nature is struck, the harmony of the sexes.”

 

To Arthur’s right, Sir Bors snorted. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but I don’t see that you can rightly call that _harmony_ , as such. Outright warfare would be a better description, to my way of thinking.”

 

“Sir Bors is newly married,” Arthur explained drily. “I’m afraid he’s finding the estate rather different than he imagined.”

 

Aerys nodded, seemingly unperturbed. “I understand. But there is a kind of harmony in anything, if you look closely enough. We believe that Nature is sacred. We are all of us part of a broader tapestry, the web of life, and therefore all living creatures are considered worthy of respect and honour. When we die, our souls are reborn in animal form, which is why we must take the greatest of care when hunting and only gather as much as we need to survive; the souls that we are dispatching might once have been known to us, and therefore should not be harmed except out of necessity. For the same reason, we are all of us devout pacifists.”

 

“And yet, you are willing to use your powers to go to war?” Arthur inquired. He glanced over his shoulder to catch Leon’s gaze, slightly perturbed at this revelation. Pacifism was all very well in theory, but in practice it meant that they would likely be untrained, undisciplined, and likely squeamish to boot. He felt his ambitions of building a magic-assisted army to defeat Morgana — and the Saxons, if it came to it — slipping even further out of reach.

 

“We will fight to defend the helpless,” Aerys said. “And to protect our families and our land from invasion.” He glanced sideways at Arthur. “Since your father began his Purge we have fought to save ourselves from destruction, also. But as a rule we are a peaceful people. We teach the principles of Wisdom, Creativity and Love; it is not our way to settle our conflicts with swords.”

 

Arthur fell silent. The picture Aerys painted was very different from the one which he had learned from Uther growing up. His father had regarded the Druids as weak, cowardly, and without honour, relying on magic to trick and deceive their enemies into leaving them alone. As a child, Arthur had imagined them as bearded old men with squinty eyes and bad breath — a bit like some of his old tutors, now that he thought about it — whose obsession with magic corrupted them and made them more creatures of the woods than men. It went without saying that they were always evil.

 

He thought of Merlin, with all his lies and secrets, and said, “And magic?”

 

“My lord?”

 

“Where does magic fit into all of this?”

 

“The Druids believe that magic is at the heart of all things. It is the manifestation of the power of the Spirit, the most sacred thing of all. It is a source of great joy and great pain, that which holds the entire universe in balance.”

 

In the back of his mind, Arthur remembered Merlin saying something of the sort to him once — that magic could be a force for good or evil, depending how one chose to use it. At the time he had rejected the idea outright, because accepting it would have meant accepting that Morgana had always had the capacity for such cruelty and malice and had not in fact been corrupted by her own power. Now he wondered whether this assumption hadn’t been born more out of wishful thinking than evidence. Aerys, at least, did not seem to be evil so far as Arthur could discern, and while he knew better than to trust entirely to his accounting of Druid lore and culture — he’d been attacked by angry magic-users far too many times to believe in their general benevolence — he supposed it made sense to think of magic more as a neutral power than a supernatural font of all malignancy. 

 

Lord Aerys was speaking again. “It is in fact because of magic that we have chosen to help you, my lord. There is a prophecy among my people that you — “

 

But whatever it was he was about to say was interrupted by the barking of hounds, and a sudden trumpeting call from the rear. Arthur turned in his saddle to see half the hunt streaming off down the hill and onto the open ground beyond, where the forest gave way momentarily to unimpeded grass cover, broken by a small, half-frozen stream.

 

“There, my lord!” Leon exclaimed, pointing. A magnificent twelve-pointed stag had broken cover, having been tracked down at last by the lymer, and was bounding across the meadow with the horses and their riders in hot pursuit. 

 

Cursing at having nearly been left behind, Arthur wheeled his mount and kicked Llamrei into a gallop, urging the mare forward as she thundered down to join the rest. Leon and Aerys followed, trailed by Sir Bors and the other knights who had been riding in their company. The chase was well and truly underway.

 

 

 

\+ + + 

 

 

 

With Arthur and the more established members of the court away to hunt, the castle felt oddly empty to Gwen as she swept through the corridors. She was unused to being left alone; as Queen, she was usually surrounded by people, ladies-in-waiting, courtiers and handmaidens, petitioners and servants. The lack of any real privacy had been one of the hardest things to get used to in her new position, for though the Lady Morgana had frequently complained about the problem, it had appeared far less intrusive from Gwen's side of the equation than it proved to be in actuality. Since she had become pregnant, the situation had worsened, since it seemed as if there was always someone hovering nearby in case she grew faint or in some way endangered her health or — more to the point, she suspected — that of the child and heir she and the rest of Camelot hoped that she was carrying. Arthur’s concerns on this score she could understand, but there was something disconcerting being treated with such delicacy by people she was fairly certain regarded her as an unwelcome interloper. It made her think they were simply biding their time until she made a mistake, at which point they would pounce like wildcats and tear her to pieces, crowing in triumph at having been the ones to predict her downfall.

 

Freed from this over-bearing scrutiny, Gwen had high hopes for her few days of (comparative) solitude. It had been some time since she had gone down to the Lower Town to distribute her customary ration of food and kindness, and she hoped that the exercise would take her mind off her troubles for a while. To that end, she was on her way towards the kitchens to see what they could spare by way of supplies when she caught sight of Lancelot and Merlin emerging from one of the storerooms with their heads bent together, obviously deep in conversation.

 

“Lance! Merlin!” She called, surprised and pleased to find them there. For all she had been anticipating a day alone, either of them would always be welcome company, and finding the two of them together was an unexpected stroke of luck when she had expected them both to be out with the hunt. “What are you doing here?”

 

The two men turned in unison.

 

“My lady,” Lancelot said, sweeping a bow. He glanced at Merlin, who followed suit a half beat later, obviously caught by surprise. 

 

“My lady,” he said. He smiled at her the way he always did, and it was perhaps only through knowing him so well that she was able to discern the fact that it failed to reach his eyes. “Lancelot was getting me caught up on his news, that’s all.”

 

Gwen raised her eyebrows at Lance, who had the abashed and yet still earnest expression of someone who had been caught in a half-truth. She thought of Arthur’s anger over Merlin’s secret, and wondered just what it was the man could be hiding. “I’m sure you the two of you have lots to talk about,” she said benignly, deciding not to press the issue for the moment. As her father had once said, it was easier to trap flies with honey than vinegar, but it also helped when you took them unawares. “I was heading towards the kitchen to take some supplies into the Lower Town. Would the two of you like to accompany me?”

 

Merlin begged off, to Gwen’s disappointment, citing the King’s instructions that morning to help Geoffrey in the East Wing. 

 

“But I was hoping to speak to you actually,” he added, as an afterthought. “About the library. I think Geoffrey is in mourning over the loss of his books.”

 

He described the old man’s state of dolour that morning, and the painstaking way he had pieced together some of the less ragged fragments of velum, striving in vain to reconstruct the vast repository of knowledge they had once possessed.

 

“I will see to it that the shelves are re-stocked as soon as the spring thaw sets in,” Gwen promised finally, when Merlin had finished. “In fact, I’ll ask Sir Geoffrey himself to look into it, that should cheer him up. Of course he must be upset over his books — he’s always treated them as if they were his children. I’m only sorry I didn’t think of it earlier.”

 

“I’m sure he’d like that, my lady,” Merlin said, smiling. “Some of his books are — were — very precious. At least, so he told me.” He glanced away, one hand going oddly the to breast of his tunic as he spoke. Gwen followed the gesture, frowning. Was Merlin ill? He certainly seemed pale and unlike himself, but that could just be down to the cold weather.

 

He excused himself a few moments later, heading off in the direction of the ruined library with his hands tucked into his armpits for warmth and leaving Gwen and Lancelot together in the corridor. They both watched him go, and when Gwen turned back to Lance she was only a little surprised to see her own concern mirrored on his features.

 

“Is he quite all right?” she asked, before she could think better of it. “I know he and Arthur have been at odds, lately; it’s not like the two of them to fight, at least not for so long.”

 

“He’s all right, I think,” Lancelot said. “He has a lot on his mind at the moment, that’s all.” He glanced back after Merlin for a moment, then turned to her with a slight smile, holding out his arm. “Would you do me the honour of allowing me to escort you on your travels, my lady?”

 

Gwen laughed a little breathlessly, pressing a hand to her chest to quiet a sudden rush of butterflies. “Why yes, Sir Lancelot,” she said, with a smile. “I believe I would enjoy that very much.”

 

 

 

 

Unlike the unfriendly echelons of the Upper Court, the Lower Town was the one place Gwen always felt certain of her welcome. In part, she knew that the friendly reception she received was because she brought the people necessities that they would otherwise be unable to obtain for themselves, along with little luxuries like soap and sweets for the children. But she liked to think that they liked her for more than just the goods she brought them. She had made several friends among the village women, and as she and Lancelot travelled from house to homely house they emerged from washrooms and bakeries to stop and chat with her, giving her remedies for her aching back and swollen ankles, sharing stories of their children's mischiefs and misadventures. When Gwen found herself exhausted in the late afternoon, and quite incapable of making the long walk back to the citadel for dinner, one of the women — a dark-skinned dairy worker named Amira — invited her to sit and break bread with her family, in spite of Gwen’s protests against wasting her precious resources. 

 

Amira’s little girl, a tiny but precocious child named Mara, seemed quite taken by Gwen and refused to look away from her for the entire meal, scooping food into her mouth with her fingers and losing half of it to her lap. Gwen tried to hide her amusement, but when she attempted to speak to the girl Mara just shook her head vigorously and hid behind her long black hair without saying a word, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

 

“She’s shy,” her mother explained, stroking the girl’s back fondly.  “She told me last week that she doesn’t quite believe you’re real.”

 

“Really?” Gwen wasn’t sure how to react. “Why not?”

 

“Because you're so pretty!” The little girl blurted. When Gwen looked at her she went bright red and hid under the table. Gwen smiled, her heart warmed by the innocent adulation. She waited until the others had finished eating and the food had been cleared away, before she leaned down to whisper under the table, “I think you’re very pretty too.”

 

“Really?” Mara’s wide eyes appeared above the tablecloth, and Gwen nodded solemnly.

 

“Really really.”

 

The little girl beamed, and when her mother came back she told her what Gwen had said and declared that one day she wanted to grow up to be just like her, with lots of pretty gowns and lovely horses and rule over all of Camelot. Gwen impulsively promised to come back the following week and take her to the stables, where she might, if she were good, be allowed a short ride on one of the more docile horses. At this Mara clapped her hands together and shrieked in delight, and the rest of the evening was spent listening to her chatter about all the childhood daydreams that Gwen had inadvertently undertaken to fulfil.

 

When Gwen and Lancelot finally began making their way back to the castle, it was full dark, and the moon had already risen. Ice lined the cobbles and the brickwork, giving the whole town a ghostly appearance and making the pathway treacherous. Gwen moved slowly, waving away Lancelot’s offered hand and lagging a little behind as she tried to navigate the slippery pavement alone. Lancelot watched her carefully but didn't interfere, saying mildly, "You're very quiet tonight.”

 

“It’s just that it’s so strange,” Gwen said, avoiding another white patch and falling into step with him. “They are all of them so kind to me — they treat me as one of their own, and I was, up until a few short years ago. Only I can’t help feeling that I’m not, anymore.” She held up her palms ruefully for his inspection. Where once they had been calloused from hard work and heavy labour, they were now the soft, smooth-skinned hands of the aristocracy. “I don’t look or work like one of them. And yet, the courtiers don’t accept me either. Some days I feel like I don't properly belong anywhere.”

 

Lance walked along silently beside her for a while, his hands clasped behind his back. The pose was characteristic of him, and brought back memories of their time together before she had been married, when he would often walk at her side for minutes at a time without speaking, only to come out with some profound thought which changed the direction of the conversation. At length, he said, “The crown, I think, is in its own way a kind of servitude.” He looked at her, and she raised her eyebrows, encouraging him to go on. “That is, you serve the people as much as yourself, even if it is in different ways. I understand that you feel out of place, my lady, but when you consider it in that light, you are more than well equipped for the tasks ahead.”

 

In a way, he was saying the same thing Arthur had told her before he’d left on the hunt, when he’d tried to explain about royal responsibility. How was it that from Lancelot the same sentiment made so much more sense?

 

“So, what you’re saying is, the things I learned as Lady Morgana’s maid apply equally to running a kingdom?” She asked, unable to suppress a degree of humour. “Perhaps I am mistaken, Sir Lancelot, but somehow I doubt that hemming laundry and arranging flowers are enough to fit a person for the task of ruling a country.” 

 

Lancelot laughed, and she took the opportunity just to watch his face in the moonlight, the way his smile seemed to ambush his usually stoic expression and take it wholly by surprise. She had not had leisure to study him in great detail since his arrival at court — there had been too much to do, and she had been preoccupied by her husband and the affairs of the court. She was surprised to see that he seemed subtly older, although it was hardly more than a year or two since she had seen him last. He carried the weight of the events at Lindisfarne rather more soberly than she might have liked, but even she had to admit he carried it well. Still, it was good to see him laugh again. 

 

“You know that isn’t precisely what I meant,” he said. “But I’ll admit the statement was poorly expressed.”

 

“The basic idea was sound, though,” Gwen said, taking pity on him. She laced her arm with his, leaning a little on his familiar strength, and telling herself it was only because the long walk had taken its toll on her, and not for any other reason. “There is a kind of servitude in royalty, even though it comes with a lot of power. I know Arthur views himself as the servant of his people, rather than the other way around. I suppose it’s only that I find it terribly lonely sometimes, being the only one who has seen both sides of the equation. Servants believe their masters have power because they have wealth and freedom, and they envy them; what they don’t understand is that wealth and power come with their own set of shackles and obligations. But by the same token, the aristocracy don’t understand that part of the obligation of privilege is to care for those who have less than they do, and that what they have doesn’t make them somehow better by default. It’s as if neither side understands that the other is human. Even Arthur, for all his honest belief in equality, can’t help but have blind spots in places. It can be so frustrating.”

 

Lancelot tucked her hand gently into the crook of his arm and covered it with his free hand, squeezing it gently.

 

“It is your ability to see both sides of the issue that makes you the perfect choice for Camelot’s queen,” he said seriously. “You must see that. Your experience is unique, and you have a vested interest in both sides — what better way than to bring them both to a better understanding of each other?”

 

Gwen flushed. Lancelot had always been quick to see the good in people, especially in her. “I’m not sure I’m really making that much of a difference,” she confessed, turning away from him. “It's been almost a year, and they still regard me as little more than a jumped-up serving girl.”

 

But Lance, bless him, didn’t seem fazed by her modesty. “They’ll learn,” he said with confidence. “Just give them time.”

 

Gwen ducked her head in assent and kept silent. She was as a rule unaccustomed to praise, and there was something about Lancelot's earnestness which gave it somehow more gravitas than it might have had coming from somebody else. She was certain she was blushing as brightly as Mara had been earlier in the evening, but was too flustered to do anything beyond bite the inside of her cheek and hope it would go away. She let him lead her back to the citadel without saying much of anything, and when he stopped at the foot of the main staircase she was so distracted by her own thoughts that she almost kept walking before his grip on her arm forced her to halt.

 

"Gwen," he said, then stopped. "Your Majesty, I -- "

 

Whatever it was he wanted to say seemed to get stuck in his throat; she watched as he shook his head, his face creasing with frustration. Finally he let go of her arm and caught up her hand instead, pressing his lips to the centre of her palm. "Good night," he said, glancing up at her. 

 

"Good night," Gwen echoed. She stood still at the bottom of the staircase and watched as he took the steps two at a time and disappeared into the shadows of the castle, the feeling of his warm lips on her skin lingering longer than it had any right to. 

 

She was still standing there a few minutes later, when the first riders from the hunt clattered into the courtyard below, Arthur's limp body slung protectively between them. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: The following chapter deals with physical injury/illness in some detail. I've tried not to devolve into gratuitous gore, but if you're easily squicked or have issues with blood/body horror/medical stuff in general, you can avoid the majority of the more intense stuff by skipping over the first section in Arthur's POV (from "Arthur woke..." to "it was better than dying").

 

 

F O U R

 

 

 

 

The sounds of chaos woke Merlin — a thunder of hoofbeats clattering on the cobbles and someone shouting for the physician. The spell-book he had been reading the night before slid off the blankets and dropped noisily to the ground, and Merlin stumbled out of bed, groggy with sleep. He still had one of his legs tangled in his breeches when Gaius knocked on his door and said sharply, "Merlin, come quickly. Arthur's been hurt."

 

Merlin overbalanced, collapsing on the floor in a heap of fabric, knocked breathless either from the force of the fall or the impact of Gaius' words. He scrambled to finish dressing and sprinted for the King's chambers after the physician with his heart in his throat. This was all his fault. If he hadn't been so careless, Arthur wouldn't have found out about his magic, and then he'd have allowed Merlin to come along on the hunt like always, and Merlin could have protected him. Oh gods, what if he was dying? What if he died because Merlin — 

 

" —m all right," Arthur was saying, as Merlin skidded into the room. "Guine _vere_. I promise you; it's only a scratch."

 

"Forgive me for being cautious, sire," Gaius said. "But we won't know the extent of the damage until I've properly examined the wound."

 

Arthur sighed. He looked dreadful — his formerly pristine hunting jacket was smeared with blood and dirt, his face flushed and hectic. There was a dirty looking bandage across his back crusted dark with dried gore, and from the King's white-knuckled grasp on the bed sheets it was obvious he was in pain, for all he was trying to hide it. But he was alive, and smirking up at Gwen as she clung to his hand, though his teasing expression faded when he caught Merlin's eye. "Very well," he said, looking away. "If it will make you happy."

 

Gaius raised one eyebrow. "Thank you, my lord," he said, drily. "It does so overwhelm me with joy to ensure you are in good health."

 

"Yes, yes, get on with it." But Arthur was smiling slightly, and Merlin felt the knot of anxiety in his stomach unclench, just a little. Surely there could be nothing seriously wrong, if Arthur could still smile like that?

 

As it turned out, it _was_ only a graze, and while Gaius cleaned the wounds, Merlin passing him what he asked for out of his ever-present medicine bag, Gwaine told them what had happened. The hunting party had been camped for the night in a clearing, already settled in to sleep, when they'd heard a thunder of hooves in the underbrush, and before they could react a massive boar had burst into the camp, its tusks gleaming in the light of the fire. It had made straight for the King's tent, according to Gwaine and the rest of the knights, although Arthur stubbornly insisted that it was merely a coincidence, and that the thing had been confused by the shouting and the flames. He'd managed to kill it before it had done much damage, but as it went down the beast had caught him in the side with one of its tusks, and very nearly missed gutting him open.

 

Gwaine, who always did love a good story, spared none of the gory details, and between his enthusiastic retelling and helping Gaius stitch up the ugly gash across Arthur's right arm and ribs, Merlin felt faintly sick by the time he had finished.

 

"You were lucky, Arthur," Gwen said, looking pale. "It could have killed you."

 

“Could have being the operative phrase,” Arthur said, rather more cheerfully than anyone in his position had any right to. Clearly Gaius’ potions were doing their work. He glanced down at the neat row of stitches across his torso. “I think even Gaius would agree that it failed in the attempt.”

 

“Just so, sire,” Gaius said. He secured the end of the thread and Merlin handed him a knife to trim off the excess. That done, the old physician got to his feet and surveyed his handiwork with satisfaction. “Thankfully, I believe I can say for certain that you are in no danger of leaving us just yet, although you will need to keep that wound clean and try not to pull your stitches. I would advise you to stay away from the training fields for a few weeks just to be on the safe side.”

 

“Of course, Gaius. Whatever you say.” 

 

Gaius’ mouth twitched. “If only all my patients were as complaisant as you, Your Majesty. I will leave you in Merlin’s capable hands for the moment — I am an old man, and I need my rest. I’m sure I can count on your wife, at least, to make sure you follow my instructions.”

 

“Of course, Gaius.” Gwen smiled at him, unconsciously echoing her husband’s words. “Merlin and I will take good care of him.”

 

Gaius patted her hand and began to gather up his things. Merlin leaned over to help him, seizing a moment when the others were distracted to hiss frantically at his mentor, “You can’t just leave!”

 

“I have other patients to tend to, Merlin,” Gaius said with infuriating equanimity. “And they need me at my best in the morning. All you need do is do your job; he’ll probably fall asleep soon in any case, so you won’t even have to speak to him, although goodness knows the two of you are being ridiculous enough about this as it is. You’re going to have to face up to one another sooner or later.”

 

“I’m trying!” Merlin protested. “What happened to giving him time to come to terms with everything?”

  
"That doesn't mean shirking your duties in the meantime.” Gaius retrieved the last of his instruments and squeezed Merlin’s arm, in a manner that he assumed was meant to be comforting. “I’ll see you later, my boy. Do try to be quiet when you come in, won’t you?”

 

“Traitor,” Merlin muttered. Gaius just shook his head, and took his leave of Gwen and Arthur before shutting the door behind him. Arthur’s eyes were closed, but Gwen was watching the two of them with bemusement, no doubt wondering what the whispered conversation had been all about. Merlin smiled at her in what he hoped was a confident fashion. “All right, then,” he said. “Lets get this mess cleaned up.”

 

True to form, the knights who had been crowding the room seemed to melt into the walls at the prospect of having to do physical work that didn’t involve hacking someone to pieces. Leon and Percival lingered a little longer than the rest, clapping Merlin on the shoulder before following the others. Gwaine was the last to leave.

 

“Keep an eye on him,” he said in a low voice to Merlin, glancing back at the King where he lay in the massive bed. “I don’t care what he says, there was something off about that boar. I’ve never seen an animal target a man with that kind of intensity before.”

 

Merlin bit his lower lip. “You think it was enchanted?”

 

“I’m not saying that. But I am saying that there have been an awful lot of Nature-loving magic-users in the castle lately, and some of them might not object to something permanent happening to Uther Pendragon’s son, if you take my meaning.”

 

Merlin glanced towards Arthur as well, his guts clenching yet again at the idea that someone might have deliberately tried to kill him. And he hadn’t been there to stop it.

 

“I’ll keep him safe,” he promised. “Whatever it takes.”

 

“I know you will,” Gwaine said. He smiled, patted Merlin on the shoulder briefly, and was gone. 

 

 

 

 

Merlin took his time tidying the rest of the room, partly to give Gwen and Arthur a moment of privacy, and partly so that he could take the time to collect himself. Now that the adrenaline of the moment was beginning to subside, his whole body felt weak and tremulous, as if his bones had turned to liquid and dissolved into his veins. Unlike Arthur, he was never at his best after being woken suddenly from a sound sleep and delivered into peril, and it took several tries before he was able to get the logs to stay in position in the fireplace, instead of rolling uselessly out onto the grate. He lit the fire with a word, then belatedly glanced over his shoulder as he remembered that he was not alone, but fortunately Gwen was not paying him any attention.

 

At last, when there was nothing else left to do, Merlin summoned his courage and approached the bed. Arthur’s eyes were still closed — he appeared to be asleep, just as Gaius had predicted, but Gwen was holding onto his hand, murmuring to him in a low voice. When Merlin cleared his throat, she jumped, one hand going to her throat.

 

“Oh! Merlin, you startled me,” she said, smiling a little sheepishly. “I must have forgotten you were here.”

 

“Sorry, my lady,” Merlin said. “I didn’t want to interrupt, only I’m going to have to…” He gestured at Arthur.

 

“Yes, of course.” Gwen let go of the King’s hand and smoothed her skirt absently. “Do you need any help?”

 

Merlin didn’t, not really, but he could tell from her expression that she dearly needed the distraction, so he nodded anyway. Between the two of them, they wrangled Arthur’s unresisting form out of his ruined clothes and cleaned the worst of the blood from his body, bandaging his injuries in a clean cloth before manipulating him once more into a fresh linen night-shirt. Throughout the process, Arthur didn’t so much as stir, and Merlin couldn’t help pausing once or twice to check his pulse and breathing, just to be on the safe side.

 

The second time Gwen caught him at it, she shook her head.

 

“Are you ever going to tell me what’s going on between you two?” she asked, glancing at her husband’s sleeping face. “He’s been so unhappy since you fought, but he refuses to tell me what it was about, except that you’ve been keeping secrets from him.”

 

Merlin swallowed and looked down at his hands. There was blood under his fingernails and on his palms, dark red and flaking, and for a moment he felt as guilty as if he’d been the one to attack Arthur instead of the boar.

 

“He found out something I didn’t want him to know,” he said quietly. “Or rather, something I never really found the right way to tell him. And — oh, Gwen, he’s been so angry…”

 

He trailed off, scrubbing a hand over his face. Gwen finished tucking in the bedclothes and came around to sit beside him, putting an arm around his shoulders. 

 

“It’s all right to have secrets, Merlin.”

 

“Not this secret.” Merlin shook his head. “Not from him.”

 

“Yes, this secret,” Gwen said firmly. “Any secret. Merlin, I know the two of you are close, but that doesn’t obligate you to tell him everything at all times, even if he thinks it does.”

 

“You don’t even know what my secret is.”

 

“No,” Gwen admitted. “But it doesn’t matter. It’s not a crime to keep things to yourself, as long as it isn’t hurting anybody.”

 

Merlin gave a short laugh — it was, in fact, a crime to do magic, although he didn’t say as much. Gwen obviously saw that this was the wrong thing to say, because she sighed and leaned into him.

 

“I keep things from him too, you know,” she said. 

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like lots of things.” She was silent for a moment. “Like the fact that the reason I’m often awake so early is because I can’t stand being dressed by the servants, so I use the time to do it myself without his knowledge.”

 

Merlin pulled back to stare at her, and she flushed, looking down at her skirt. Her hands were worrying the fine material of her frock, a nervous gesture which reminded him that no matter the fine silks and jewels she now wore, she was still the same Gwen underneath. “I know it’s not very queen-like to be afraid of them,” she said. “But there it is. Whenever I see them, they go out of their way to be unpleasant or rude. We were friends once — or if not friends, then at least happy acquaintances. But now…” She trailed off, looking miserable, and Merlin hugged her tight again, feeling a pang of guilt. He’d been so caught up in his own drama with Arthur that he hadn’t even noticed that she had been unhappy. 

 

“You know they’re only jealous,” he said. “Some people can’t stand it when others get ahead. And some people just don’t like change. It’s not really personal.”

 

She nodded. “I know. Arthur said something much the same, back before we were married and I was worried what people would think. And I suppose there’s nothing I can do about it, really, except to keep going and show them that I’m not affected by their snobbery. But sometimes it’s hard.”

 

“Why don’t you just talk to Arthur about it? He’d soon put things right.”

 

“Because,” she said. “You know Arthur. He’ll do something silly and extravagant like try and have the entire staff replaced, and I don’t want to be responsible for everyone losing their jobs just because I can’t face up to a bit of unpleasantness. Besides,” she added, stroking a hand absently across her belly. “I don’t want him to think I can’t deal with my own problems. I can’t go running to him for every little thing.”

 

There was something in her face, then, which made Merlin pause, and study her more closely. Now that he was really looking at her, she seemed tired and worn down, as if unlike him she had yet to fall asleep when the summons came. There was a smear of dried blood across her left cheek, and an unhappy cast to her mouth, and for the first time it occurred to him to wonder what _other_ secrets she might be keeping from the King, and whether she might, ironically, know more about keeping back important information than she was saying. 

 

“Are you all right?” he asked her softly, reaching out to take her hand. “You know you can always talk to me, right?”

 

Gwen shifted away and stood up. “I’m fine,” she said, with a quick laugh. “Just a bit tired, that’s all.” She began to gather up the discarded cloths and bandages they had used to dress Arthur’s wound, tidying them into neat piles.

 

Merlin watched her for a few moments, then got up to help.  

 

“Maybe I can talk to them,” he suggested. “The servants, I mean. They don’t hate me. Well…” He made a face. “The cook is convinced I’m out to steal her food, but she thinks that about everyone.”

 

Gwen smiled at him, transforming her whole face. “Would you?” she said. “I don’t know that it would do much good, but I would appreciate it.” 

 

“Of course.”

 

He emptied the basin and scooped up the remaining detritus, ready to take it back to the infirmary and dispose of it properly, but just as he was reaching the door Gwen’s voice stopped him, pitched low so as not to wake the King but still perfectly audible from across the room.

 

“You can talk to me, too, you know,” she said. Merlin turned back to look at her, standing beside the bed with one hand resting in its customary position on her stomach, the other at her back. She smiled a little. “If you ever need to.”

 

“I know,” he said, and smiled back.

 

 

 

 

It was still early enough that the rest of the castle remained asleep, and Merlin moved slowly through the empty corridors, the basin full of dirty linens clasped under one arm, his mind on Gwen and their conversation. If Arthur had been unhappy about their fight, he certainly hadn’t gone out of his way to do anything about it, although granted Arthur could be ridiculously stubborn when it came to things like _feelings_ and _honour_. What was more interesting was that he hadn’t told Gwen Merlin’s secret. If it had been the fact that Merlin had concealed his gifts from him which had bothered him, surely it was hypocritical of him to turn around and keep the same secret from his wife — and Arthur had many faults, but Merlin was fairly confident that hypocrisy was not usually one of them. So there must be some other reason for his reticence, if only Merlin could work out what it was.

 

He thought back to Gwen’s comment that it was all right to keep things from people, even your closest friends, provided the secret wasn’t hurting anyone. He had been feeling guilty about hiding his magic for so long that he hadn't really stopped to think about the reasoning behind it. Magic was obviously far from harmless, but he would never use it to hurt Arthur, or to undermine Camelot in any way. So was it really so bad for him not to have told Arthur about it?

 

He paused at the top of the staircase leading down to the infirmary, and sighed. True, unlike so many of the magic-users who came to Camelot, he had no intention of using his gift for nefarious purposes. But that didn’t change the fact that he'd hurt Arthur by concealing it from him. Gwen had been wrong in that respect; perhaps he had no obligation to tell Arthur _everything_ , but this wasn’t just some minor personal problem or embarrassing secret — it was a vital part of who he was, and it contravened one of the central laws of Arthur’s kingdom. Considered from that point of view, he supposed he could begin to understand why Arthur was so upset.

 

He was still standing there, lost in thought, when he heard the sound of voices approaching from the end of the corridor. More out of instinct than curiosity, he ducked into one of the unused store-rooms across the hall and put his ear to the crack, wondering who on earth could be wandering the castle at this time of night. 

 

“…can’t be sure that he’s even here,” someone was saying, sounding frightened. “After what happened today — if that wasn’t enough to draw him out, what is?”

 

“I’m sure Emrys has his reasons,” another voice said, and Merlin nearly dropped the basin. “We’ll simply have to continue as planned.”

 

“But — “ the other began. “Surely, if what you sense is true, then our plan is in jeopardy.”

 

“Not necessarily. If the King does not recover — “ 

 

The rest of the sentence Merlin didn't catch, as whoever it was had continued walking past his hiding place, their voices fading as they turned the corner. Merlin waited another moment, then slipped out of the storeroom and closed the door gently behind him, staring off in the direction in which the two conspirators had disappeared. One of those voices had sounded vaguely familiar to him, but he couldn't place it. One of the Druids, perhaps? They were the most likely to have known about Emrys, and would probably have just returned with the rest of the hunting party after Arthur’s accident. But what plan were they talking about? And why did they think Arthur was in danger? 

 

Hugging the basin closer to his chest, Merlin resumed his trek to the infirmary, this time at a much quicker and less thoughtful pace. Had the Druids been involved in the attack against Arthur, as Gwaine suspected? Or were they talking about something else altogether, something to do with his Destiny? He hoped Gaius was still awake, because it seemed that they suddenly had rather a lot to talk about. 

 

 

+  +  +

 

 

Arthur woke slowly, the last remnants of his drugged sleep clinging stubbornly to the edges of his consciousness as he blinked his eyes open. The room was barely light, the heavy drapes pulled over the windows. The fire had burned low in the grate and all the candles were out, which suggested that Merlin had yet to come in and replenish them, and Guinevere was nowhere to be found. He assumed she must have retired to another chamber for the night, as other than himself there was no sign of anyone having occupied their bed. It was a sight he was growing more and more used to, these days.

 

Without a proper fire, the room was unpleasantly cold. Every part of Arthur’s body ached as he sat up, and his overheated skin seemed to shrink back from the crisp morning air, but he made himself stand and walk slowly towards the window, swinging his injured arm at his side to test its strength and rolling his shoulders to get the kinks out of his system. A flash of pain shot through him, sharp enough to make him stop in his tracks. The ache in his ribcage had spread out to his back, and when he lifted his shirt to check the bandages, he saw that they were stained dark with what could only be blood. Not a good sign. He’d had enough battle wounds to know his own limitations when he was recovering, but he also had sufficient self-awareness to admit that he didn’t always heed them. Still, he hadn’t thought the movement sufficient to cause any real damage, which meant that it was likely he had torn open his stitches somehow in his sleep.

 

Concerned now, he abandoned his plans of dressing himself and set about unwinding the bandages, moving carefully in the hopes that he wouldn’t aggravate the reopened the wound. Every movement caused a fresh spasm of pain due to the awkward angle of the gash and the twisting required to unbind it, but he gritted his teeth and kept working. He wanted to be certain whether the sutures had indeed been ripped before he sent for Gaius — he didn’t want to worry the older man unduly, and Lord knew he would rather not be poked and prodded any more than absolutely necessary. However, the more he persisted with the operation the more he regretted the decision. The final layer of cloth had been stuck to the wound by the drying blood, and it took several seconds before he was able to muster the courage to remove it, tearing away a film of crusted gore along with what felt like a layer of the skin beneath it when he peeled off the bandage. 

 

What he saw beneath the ruined linen made his breath catch and his stomach turn over. The stitches hadn’t merely been torn; they had disappeared, dissolved as cleanly as if they had never been, the wound open and gaping like a grotesque mouth in his ragged skin. Worse, however, at least in Arthur’s opinion, was the fact that the blood that was leaking from it was dark and foul-smelling, and dark veins snaked away from the site of the incision like poisonous snakes, dispelling some unknown humour into his bloodstream. Arthur felt bile rise in his mouth, and had to brace his hands on his knees to keep from vomiting.

 

Obviously, the wound was infected. That was all it was. Gaius would shake his head and cluck over him, feed him something vile-tasting, and all would be well, as it always was. He took a long, slow breath, trying to convince himself, but the stench of his own flesh made him gag and then cough as he fought the impulse. His head was spinning, the room zooming in and out as if on the end of a string, fading and then rushing back again. He thought about moving towards the bedposts, using their solid support to hold himself up, but he had only managed one step back in the direction of the bed before his knees gave out and he collapsed, a fresh wave of agony leaving him curled up and gasping as he waited for it to pass. 

 

He had no idea how long he remained there. Several minutes must have elapsed before he heard the door to his chambers swing open, and a familiar voice called out a greeting. He had no breath to speak, but he must have made some sound, for a moment later there were footsteps coming towards him, and then the sound of something heavy clattering to the ground nearby. Merlin had obviously dropped his breakfast tray again, which might have been funny if he’d still had the ability to laugh.

 

“Arthur?” Gentle hands cupped his cheek and pressed against his neck, feeling for his pulse, then turned him over onto his back to inspect the wound. The movement sent the pain flooding through him again, and Arthur thrashed, instinctively trying to escape it. His chest felt as if it were clamped in a vice and the rest of his body spasmed, fighting to draw in air.

 

“It’s all right, Arthur, it’s going to be okay.” Merlin’s voice was trembling. Then, to someone Arthur couldn’t see, he snapped: “Get Gaius. Hurry. I think he might have been poisoned.”

 

Arthur retched again, this time unable to stop himself. There was the sound of running footsteps as someone left in a hurry, then the hands were back, holding him, turning him on his side. Arthur wanted to cry out but he couldn’t spare the breath, couldn’t force his body to obey him. All he could do was squeeze his eyes shut and focus on breathing — in, out, in, out. It hurt, like someone was trying to strangle him from the inside out, but it was better than dying.

 

 

 

 

The next thing Arthur was aware of was a cool hand brushing across his forehead and another at his wrist, and that there were pillows propped behind his back, keeping him upright. He drew in a deep breath and exhaled, relishing the ability to fill his lungs without effort, then opened his eyes, blinking when he looked straight into Gaius’ familiar, worried face. 

 

“Sire,” the old physician said gravely. He stepped back, his hand falling away from Arthur's forehead, and as he moved Guinevere and Merlin came into view behind him. “How are you feeling? You gave us all quite a scare.”

 

“What happened?” Arthur asked. His voice was raspy and weak, and he cleared his throat, instinctively sitting up straighter. He trusted Gaius implicitly, but that didn’t mean he was comfortable with the idea of appearing any more fragile in his presence than he already felt.

 

“That is what I am endeavouring to ascertain,” Gaius said. He peered at Arthur inquisitively, his bushy eyebrows meeting above the middle of his nose. “Can you tell me everything you’ve eaten so far today? Anything — whatever you remember.”

 

Arthur shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “Merlin was bringing in my breakfast tray when he found me, and I hadn’t eaten anything prior to that.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

The physician moved away, frowning, and Guinevere rushed forward to take his place. She took Arthur’s hand and kissed it, pressing it to her chest above the bulge of her belly. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she was smiling when she looked at him. "Welcome back," she said.

 

“Are you all right?” Arthur asked her. He glanced at Gaius. “No one else is sick, are they?”

 

“No, just you,” Guinevere answered for him. “Oh, Arthur, I was so worried.” She glanced back at Merlin and Gaius. “We all were.”

 

Merlin was hovering in the background, uncharacteristically silent, and Arthur couldn’t resist stealing a glance at him over Guinevere’s shoulder. Judging by his appearance, Merlin was feeling even worse than Arthur was, which considering what he’d just been through was quite a feat. When he noticed Arthur was looking at him he turned even paler and ducked his head, hunching his shoulders in a defensive posture. Arthur thought back to the way Merlin had found him and how desperately he had clutched at the other man’s hand, and flushed.

 

“Is it poison?” he inquired, steering his attention away from his manservant. “Do you know what kind?”

 

“Not as such, no,” Gaius said. He finished putting away his instruments and turned back to Arthur, his expression sober. “Whatever it is that is afflicting you, it is more powerful than any natural poison I am familiar with. The infection has induced a kind of corruption of the blood, which has dissolved your stitches and seems to be preventing the wound from clotting. Since you say you have eaten nothing this morning, I can only assume that it is in some way connected to the injury you received from the boar last night.”

 

“It started bleeding again,” Arthur recalled. “I noticed the moment I stood up.”

 

Gaius nodded. “Yes, I had to change the bandages twice while you were unconscious, although I have administered some herbs to suppress the bleeding and the tide seems to have been stemmed for now. With your leave, sire, I will dispatch two of your men to retrieve the animal’s carcass. Perhaps that will tell us something about what ails you.”

 

Arthur nodded. It was a logical request, and perhaps if he hadn’t been feeling so exhausted he would have thought of it himself. “Very well,” he said. “Send Gwaine and Percival to fetch it for you. They’ll know where to locate the body, even if it is buried by snow.”

 

“Very good, my lord.”

 

Gaius left shortly afterwards, taking the still worryingly silent Merlin with him, but Guinevere stayed behind, her hand now gripping Arthur’s so tightly that it made his bones ache. He patted her wrist gently.

 

“I’ll be fine,” he said. “Don’t worry. Gaius will figure everything out, you’ll see.”

 

“I know,” she said, but although she was trying to smile she still looked anxious, and Arthur couldn’t blame her. The experience had rattled him in a way that he hadn’t thought possible. He had believed himself inured to the prospect of his own death — he had to be, to fight the way he did. But there was a difference between being cut down in battle and being betrayed by your own body, helpless and in agony while something destroyed you slowly from the inside. He shivered. Guinevere got up to draw the hangings and stoke up the fire, but still Arthur found he could not get warm.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

When Gwen was finally able to bring herself to leave Arthur’s bedside, it was late afternoon, the weak winter sunlight beginning to wane as the hours slipped towards evening. She felt drained, lack of sleep and the combination of shocks over the past few days having sapped her of her energy, so that when she ran into Lancelot in the corridor just outside of Arthur’s rooms, she couldn’t bring herself to avoid him as she had originally intended.

 

“My lady,” Lancelot said, with a bow. Gwen merely nodded in response, unable to muster a greeting, and he looked at her with concern. “How fares the King?”

 

“He’s sleeping now,” she said. It had taken a long time for Arthur to relax enough to drop off, despite all that Gaius’ medicines could do, and his sleep had not been an easy one. “Gaius has made him comfortable, but we will know more when Gwaine and Percival return.”

 

Lancelot nodded, and Gwen assumed the other knights must have told him the situation, since he hadn’t been one of those in the King’s chambers the night before. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

 

Gwen smiled at him tiredly. “Not unless you have a magical cure for anxiety,” she said. “Or a crystal ball.”

 

Lancelot smiled back.

 

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “But I do know of something that is almost as good.”

 

Taking her gently by the arm, he led her along the corridor and up the stairs into the little room that served as the solar for herself and some of the other noblewomen in the castle. It was close to the top of one of the towers, to allow for the light, and was currently empty at the moment, although a cheerful fire was blazing in the grate and there was a bowl of fresh apples and pears in the centre of the table. Just looking at the delicious centrepiece made Gwen’s stomach growl, and she realised she had hardly eaten all day, not since the squire set to guard Arthur’s doors had rushed in and told her that he thought the King might be dying. 

 

“Goodness,” she said, blushing, suddenly aware that the sound must have been audible to Lancelot standing beside her. “You must think me awfully rude, but I only just realised how hungry I was.”

 

Lancelot laughed. “Not at all,” he said, gesturing to the table. “It’s there to be eaten, I’m sure. But I will send someone to fetch something more substantial as well, if you have no objection. I’m sure you must be in need of some nourishment by now, and it’s important to keep your strength up.”

 

He might have meant because of the child, or it could have been a reference to Arthur’s illness and the duties that would now fall to her shoulders because of it, she couldn’t be certain. Either way, she had to admit he was right, even if at another time the platitude might have made her bristle.

 

“Yes, please,” she said. “I would appreciate a proper meal.”

 

While Lance sent for a servant and dispatched him with his Queen’s orders, Gwen took a seat at the table and picked up a pear to eat to stave off the worst of her hunger. Just tasting the sweet fruit helped to ground her, settling her nerves and pushing back some of the fog of exhaustion from her mind. She watched as Lancelot returned to poke at the fire, his face pensive, and wondered if he too felt as confused and guilty in her presence as she was feeling in his.

 

It was probably ridiculous, she knew. She was a married woman, carrying another man’s child, and it was stupid to think that Lancelot, honourable man that he was, would allow himself to continue to have feelings for her under the circumstances. Add to this the fact that Arthur was his friend and his sovereign lord, and she knew that he would consider it a gross betrayal to even think of her in that way. And yet, the other night, when he’d kissed her hand, for a moment she had thought…

 

The worst part, she supposed, was that she had thought at all. The idea that Lance might still care for her had taken root inside her like a bad seed, and just for a minute she had considered what it might have been like if she were married to him instead; if it were his child that she was carrying and not Arthur’s. When Arthur had been brought back to the citadel, unconscious and bleeding and having barely escaped death, she had only been able to stare at him in shocked silence for a moment, wondering if this was some kind of punishment for her treacherous imaginings. Then he had stirred, and she’d had the presence of mind to send for Gaius. She hadn’t been able to give the matter much thought after that, beyond resolving to avoid the knight until she’d had the chance to regain control of herself. But now Lancelot was here, and they were alone, and in her fatigued state her mind had begun to wander back down paths that were best left unexplored.

 

Lancelot cleared his throat. “My lady,” he said, not looking at her. “I had thought — that is, there is a matter I wish to discuss with you.”

 

“Yes?” Gwen’s heart skipped a beat, and a moment later the baby gave a kick, as if he’d felt it and disapproved of his mother’s excitement. She put down the pear, the juicy flesh suddenly less palatable than before, and did her best to sound composed. “I hope you know you can speak freely here, Lance.”

 

“Of course.” He hesitated for a moment, then said in a low voice, “My lady, I would have you know that it is not my intention to stay in Camelot beyond the end of the season.”

 

Gwen felt her heart sink in spite of herself. “Oh.”

 

The knight glanced up at her, an earnest expression on his face. “Please don’t think this has anything to do with — that is, I appreciate Camelot’s hospitality, and I always enjoy my time here. It is only that, if as I suspect the Saxons are planning to attack come spring, I will be better able to serve Arthur and the kingdom abroad, gathering news, rather than remaining in the citadel.”

 

Gwen studied him. “I would have thought my husband would have need of you here, if we are to war with Saxony.”

 

“He will need information as much as an army,” Lancelot said, shrugging. “And that at least is something I can provide.”

 

“I see.”

 

He must have heard the disappointment in her voice, because all at once he turned to her, both hands gripping the edge of the table that stood between them. “Gwen, you must know that I can’t stay. If circumstances were different, perhaps it would be easier, but…”

 

He trailed off. Gwen held her breath, her eyes meeting his and holding, willing him to speak yet at the same time fearing what he might say. If what circumstances were different? If he hadn’t decided to cede the field to Arthur without a fight? If he hadn’t told her she would be better off as another man’s bride? He shook his head, and Gwen pursed her lips in frustration, but before she could open her mouth again to speak she heard a timid knock on the door, and turned to see the servant Lancelot had sent to fetch her meal hovering awkwardly in the doorway. He bowed when he saw her gaze on him.

 

“Your dinner, my lady?”

 

“Thank you,” Gwen said, recovering herself. She straightened in her seat and gestured to the table. “Please, just place it on the table, and we will help ourselves. That is, if you will join me?” She asked Lance, raising her eyebrows. He hesitated, glancing at the serving boy, then shook his head.

 

“I thank you for the offer, Your Majesty,” he said formally. “But I’m afraid I must decline.”

 

Unable to protest with the servant present, Gwen was stuck, and she knew Lancelot had intended it that way. His eyes begged her to forgive the trickery, and she sighed, not feeling particularly charitable but also unwilling to allow their encounter to end in discord. 

 

“Very well,” she said. “Another time, perhaps.”

 

Lancelot bowed deeply before he left, but she couldn't help noticing it was the sort of pleasantry that promised nothing in reply.

 

 

 

 

When Gwen returned to her rooms later that evening, she found to her surprise that her grate had been cleaned and a fire laid out for her, and an unfamiliar serving-girl was in the process of turning down the covers of her bed. Startled by the unexpected attention, even if it was no more than her due, Gwen paused in the doorway, the sound of her footsteps alerting the maid who straightened with a flustered smile.

 

“Your Majesty,” she said, curtseying respectfully. “I was just in the process of finishing up. Would you like me to draw a bath for you when I’m done?”

 

She had a broad country accent, and kept her eyes lowered deferentially while she waited for the Queen to speak, her hands clasped behind her back. Gwen could not recall having seen her before, which probably explained why she was actually performing her duties: she had no past slights to resent, and could not yet have been swayed to the opinion of the other servants regarding their esteemed mistress. Gwen smiled at her, feeling suddenly cheered in spite of herself. 

 

“That would be wonderful, thank you. What is your name?”

 

“Gytha, my lady.” 

 

“Thank you, Gytha.” She watched the girl put the finishing touches on her bed, and asked curiously, “How long have you been in Camelot?”

 

“Oh, about a week, Your Majesty,” Gytha said. She glanced up briefly before going back to smoothing the linen with what Gwen recognised as professional thoroughness. “I used to live with my Nan in the village a few miles from here, but she got sick last winter, and when she died I up and moved here.”

 

She didn’t explain why she had left her home, but Gwen, knowing what small town like could be like for a girl on her own, could well imagine. “I see. I’m sorry about your Nan, but I’m sure Camelot is glad to have you. I hope you’re settling in comfortably?”

 

“Oh yes, my lady, thank you.” The girl flashed a smile. “I’ll just go and get started on your bath water. Please excuse me.”

 

The bath was heavenly; just the right temperature, and scented liberally with lavender oil. Sinking into it with a sigh, Gwen felt herself relax for the first time in hours — perhaps days. Gytha was good at her job, having undressed her mistress deftly and without awkwardness, helping her into the tub with strong hands yet managing not to seem overly solicitous, in spite of her obvious care for Gwen’s condition. She chattered lightly as she put the Queen’s clothing away, then, after checking Gwen had everything she needed, withdrew from the room to the antechamber to give her some privacy, remaining within earshot but politely out of sight. It was not the usual way of things for a girl to be promoted to the Queen’s handmaiden without prior trial or even approval from the monarch herself, but Gwen decided as she soaked that she could overlook the breach in protocol just this once, since Gytha was obviously more than qualified for the position. The girl had a gift for making her feel at ease in her presence, which was more than she could say for the rest of the staff at the moment.

 

Thinking about the castle servants triggered the memory of her conversation with Merlin the day before, and his promise to speak to them for her, and she wondered if he’d had the chance yet or if the incident with Arthur had driven it from his mind. After his obvious panic that morning, and his vague yet telling reference to the nature of his secret, she had begun to think that her earlier suspicions about Gaius using magic in his medicines were correct, although perhaps not the whole story. If Gaius was using magic, then it stood to reason that Merlin was probably helping him, and that this was what Arthur had discovered. For her part, Gwen would have thought that Arthur wouldn’t have minded a bit of _benevolent_  magic for a change — he didn’t have Uther’s hatred of all things supernatural, after all, and he had a soft spot for Merlin a mile wide, for all he tried to deny it. But then again, Arthur must have seen it as a betrayal, to have kept something from him for so long, which couldn’t have helped matters. He always did hate things to be so underhanded. 

 

Gwen frowned to herself, cupping some water in her hands and letting it run down her bare arms back into the tub. Despite what she’d told Merlin, there _were_ other things she was keeping from Arthur, things which she was going to have to explain eventually before he found out from some other source. But given his reaction to Merlin’s subterfuge, it seemed that she would have to pick her moment carefully if she didn’t want to alienate him unnecessarily. If she could just get him to hear her out, she knew he would understand when she told him what she had done, and the reasons for it, just as he had understood when she told him about Lancelot all those many months ago. Whatever else he might be, Arthur was a just man, and a generous one, provided he could be made to see sense instead of reacting based on whatever questionable lessons Uther had taught him.

 

The tangled nature of her thoughts had entirely dispelled Gwen's earlier tranquility, and with a disappointed sigh she sat up and began to wash herself in earnest. It was beginning to get cold in any case, in spite of the roaring fire, and she wanted to stop in and check on Arthur before she retired. Everything else could wait until morning, when she had caught up on her sleep. A good night’s sleep always solved everything.


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

 

 

F I V E

 

 

 

 

“Merlin, I am aware that my cooking skills may leave a lot to be desired, but is the porridge really that fascinating or is there something else on your mind?” 

 

Merlin looked up with a start, to find Gaius settling onto the seat across from him, glancing pointedly from Merlin’s face to the bowl he had been poring over and back again. When Merlin only blinked at him, the old man sighed.

 

“It wasn’t your fault, you know,” he said kindly. “This sort of poison works slowly, hijacking the natural functions of the body. There wouldn’t have been any signs to miss that first night, even if you had thought to look for them.”

 

“I know,” Merlin said, finally putting down his spoon. “It’s not that.”

 

“Well, what is it then? You’ve had a face like a cat’s backside all morning.”

 

Wrinkling his nose at the unpleasant visual, Merlin pushed the gruel away from him with one hand and asked, “Gaius, do you think the Druids could have had something to do with Arthur’s injuries?”

 

It was the first chance he’d had to bring up his clandestine encounter in the castle corridors — when he’d reached the infirmary that night, Gaius had been sleeping, and afterwards Arthur’s unexpected collapse had driven it clean out of his head. It wasn’t until he’d nearly run right into Master Aerys on the grand staircase the day before that he had remembered it all in a rush, and come to some rather unpleasant conclusions. The poison must have been part of the plan the Druids had been talking about, which meant that it was quite possible he ought to have seen it coming. Which meant that it was twice now he had failed Arthur, and both times with potentially deadly results. Stricken with guilt, he had resolved to talk to Gaius about the matter as soon as he got the chance, and had decided on that morning as the easiest opportunity for discussing the topic without interruption. 

 

“What makes you say that?” Gaius asked now, looking startled.

 

 “I heard some of them talking about it, when Arthur first got back. Well, I think it was them. I don’t know for certain.”

 

He told Gaius what he’d heard, and the physician listened attentively, his lips pursed in an expression of contemplation.

 

“It’s possible,” he said, when Merlin had finished. “It certainly sounds like they’ve been involved in _something_ , at any rate. You’re positive they were talking about Emrys?”

 

“I’m positive,” Merlin said, emphatically. “I was so surprised I nearly gave myself away. If it was the Druids, that would make sense, though, wouldn’t it? That they would know me by that name?”

 

“Yes, perhaps.” Now it was Gaius’ turn to frown into his breakfast. “I have to admit, I have had my suspicions about the nature of Arthur’s ‘accident’ from the beginning. But as to whether the Druids are responsible…” He trailed off. “This summit is such a step forward, for them as well as for Camelot, that I find it hard to believe any one of them would jeopardise it without good cause.”

 

Merlin made a noncommittal sound. Gaius had told him often enough that the Druids were a peaceful, straightforward people, not given to subterfuge or violence, but in Merlin’s experience far too many magic-users seemed ready to put aside their beliefs when it came to getting revenge on the Pendragons, and most of them were convinced that their actions were entirely justified. 

 

“It doesn’t seem likely that someone else would know about Emrys,” he pointed out. “And what other plan could they have been talking about, if not something to do with Arthur’s injury?”

 

Gaius’ expression was troubled, but he nodded to show he understood Merlin’s point.

 

“All I can suggest is that you must be very careful, from here on out,” he said soberly. “Just because Arthur knows about your magic doesn’t mean that you should drop your guard. It could quite easily make trouble for him if his manservant were outed as a sorcerer before the deal with the Druids is concluded; there are those on the Council who are already eager to accuse him of being controlled by nefarious hands. If they knew that someone so close to him had the gift…”

 

“They would assume I was influencing his actions, yeah, I know.” Merlin picked up his spoon again and stirred some more honey into his porridge with angry strokes. “I’d like to see one of them try to influence Arthur into doing something he didn’t want to do. It’s not as easy as it sounds, magic or no magic!”

 

“Be that as it may,” Gaius said, smiling a little. “It would not be in anyone’s best interests for you to be discovered at this juncture.”

 

“I know.” Merlin sighed. “I’ll be careful.”

 

“Good. I would also suggest telling Arthur about what you’ve heard, and seeing if he has any suggestions on the topic.”

 

“What?” Merlin dropped the spoon, which landed in his bowl with a clatter and splattered milk all over the table. “No, Gaius, I can’t.”

 

“Why not?” Gaius raised an eyebrow. “If the Druids _are_ involved in some kind of plot to kill him, Arthur needs to know. And it’s not as if you need to worry about him discovering your magic anymore. Your carelessness has already taken care of that.”

 

Ignoring his mentor’s disapproval, Merlin made flailing motions with his hands in an attempt to convey just how bad of an idea he thought that was. “He already doesn’t trust me, Gaius! What is he going to think if I tell him the Druids think I’m some kind of — of saviour for all of magic? He’ll demand to know everything, you know he will.” He swallowed hard at the thought. “If he reacted badly before, how do you think he’s going to react when I tell him everything I’ve done?”

 

Gaius, however, only fixed him with a serious expression, and calmly returned to eating his porridge. “It seems to me that Arthur isn’t the only one who lacks a bit of trust,” he said mildly. “I know I said to give him some time, but the more information he has, the more capable he will be of truly understanding what you have done for him. You never know, Merlin. He might surprise you.”

 

Merlin could only shake his head. “He’s not well,” he said, aware even as he did so that he was grasping at straws. “I don’t want to trouble him. Besides, we don’t know for certain there even _is_ a plot yet. I want to do a bit more digging on my own first. I promise I’ll tell him if I find anything concrete, all right?”

 

He could tell from Gaius’ frown that the other man was disappointed in him, so he looked away, choosing instead to begin shovelling the now somewhat over-sweetened gruel into his mouth. Truth be told, he wanted to confide in Arthur more than anything, but as yet the King had given no indication that he was inclined to listen, or that he was even curious about what Merlin could do. Merlin remembered only too well how the King had reacted when he'd first offered to explain everything, and the idea of Arthur coldly prying his secrets out of him in that frame of mind, dissecting everything he said for the hint of a lie, made Merlin’s skin crawl. Perhaps it was foolish, but he wanted Arthur to ask about his magic of his own accord — because he was interested, not because he needed to know the information for strategic purposes or to combat yet another magical threat. He wanted Arthur to see the magic as part of _him_ , not as a weapon that might prove dangerous if left untested.

 

“I will explain everything eventually,” he said, more to himself than to Gaius. “I _want_ to, it’s just…”

 

“I know it can’t be easy,” Gaius said heavily. He had a faraway expression on his face, and Merlin was unexpectedly reminded that Gaius had been close to Uther, back before the Purge; perhaps he could empathise with Merlin's situation more than he thought. “But if nothing else, I think you owe it to your destiny to try.”

 

His destiny. Did he even still have a destiny, anymore?

 

“I’ll think about it,” Merlin said with a sigh. It was the closest he could come to a promise, at the moment, but fortunately Gaius seemed to understand.

 

 

 

 

Merlin had just finished washing up the breakfast dishes when there was a knock on the infirmary door, and Gaius opened it to reveal Sir Lancelot, standing somewhat awkwardly in the hallway.

 

“Good morning,” he said, smiling a little sheepishly. “I’m sorry to bother you this early, but I —“ 

 

“Not at all, Lancelot, come in,” Gaius said, moving back to give him room to pass. “Is there something we can do for you? You’re not ill, I hope.”

 

“No — actually, I was hoping I might speak to Merlin, if that’s all right.”

 

“Give me a minute to finish up,” Merlin said, exchanging glances with Gaius. “Then I’ll be right with you.”

 

No sooner had Lancelot taken a seat at the table, however, when yet another knock sounded, and the door was pushed open impatiently before Gaius had the chance to reach for the latch.

 

“Gaius?” Sir Gwaine said, striding into the room, only to stop short when he saw that the physician was not alone. He nodded at Merlin and Lancelot, then jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Percival and I have something we think you’ll want to see.”

 

Gaius raised his eyebrows. “Goodness,” he said. “That does sound mysterious. May I inquire as to what it is?”

 

But Gwaine, it seemed, was uncharacteristically not in the mood to banter. “We have the body you sent us for,” he said bluntly. “But there’s something weird going on, and we need your help with it. Percival’s waiting with the cart outside of the citadel. We thought it best not to bring it through the Lower Town — you’ll understand why when you see it.”

 

Shaking his head, Gaius got to his feet. 

 

“Very well,” he said, beginning to gather his things. He looked at Merlin. “I will go straight to the King after I’ve sorted this out; Merlin, will you be all right looking after things until I return? 

 

“Of course,” Merlin said. He turned curiously to Gwaine. “Is everything all right?”

 

Gwaine made a see-sawing motion with his hand, and ran the other one through his hair. He looked rather more windblown than usual, as though he had been riding since the early hours of the morning, if not throughout the night, but aside from his unusually serious manner he didn’t seem overly worried about their discovery, which went some way towards soothing Merlin’s anxieties. “I’ll tell you about it later,” he said, finally favouring Merlin with his signature roguish grin. “Provided you buy me a drink first.”

 

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Why is it always my turn to buy you a drink,” he asked, mostly rhetorically. “When you’re the one who keeps dragging me to the tavern in the first place?”

 

“Mostly because I never have any money,” Gwaine replied, and grinned. Merlin couldn’t help laughing at that, shaking his head as he closed the door behind Gaius and the irascible knight. When he turned to share the joke with Lancelot, however, his amusement quickly faded. Lance had his arms folded across his chest and was staring at the tabletop, worlds away from the conversation that had been going on around him. 

 

After a brief check of the potion Gaius had left simmering over the fire, Merlin pulled up a stool across from his distracted friend and cleared his throat.

 

“What was it that you wanted to talk to me about?” he asked, ducking his head to catch Lancelot’s brooding gaze. “Was it something to do with Morgana?”

 

Lancelot blinked, but shook his head. “No,” he said. “Well, not exactly. I — well.” He swallowed, and looked down at his feet. “It’s about Gwen.”

 

Merlin’s eyebrows rose. That wasn’t what he’d been expecting. “What about Gwen?”

 

“I’m in love with her,” Lancelot blurted. He glanced up at Merlin and then away, his cheeks flushing a dusky red, and he looked so discomfited that Merlin squelched his initial urge to laugh at the revelation in favour of a more sympathetic approach.

 

“That’s not exactly a secret,” he pointed out, as gently as he could. “It’s always been obvious how you feel about her.”

 

Lancelot, however, looked miserable. “It shouldn’t be,” he said. “She’s a married woman — not to mention the queen! And Arthur…”

 

“You can’t help how you feel,” Merlin said. “It doesn’t make you a bad person to love someone, Lance.”

 

“You don’t understand,” Lance said, shaking his head. “I’m the one who told her she should marry Arthur instead of me. I thought she would be better off — she’d have status, and security, and she could do so much good with her power…And Arthur was obviously in love with her, and she with him. I just wanted her to be happy.”

 

“Which was very noble of you,” Merlin said, trying to be encouraging, although his real opinion had always been somewhat conflicted when it came to this particular subject. Leaving aside his conviction that Gwen was the best queen anyone could ask for, _was_ Gwen better off ruling Camelot with Arthur? In a material sense, certainly, but he thought back to her unhappiness and couldn’t help but wonder whether perhaps she would have been more comfortable as the wife of a knight, rather than a king. In either case, she should have been able to make the decision for herself - although of course it was a moot point now.

 

“Was that why you left?” he asked, already guessing at the answer, and Lance nodded.

 

“I wanted to give her space,” he said. “So that she could put me from her mind for good. I thought it would make things easier if I stayed away for a while, but the Saxons rather upset my plans.”

 

“They do tend to do that,” Merlin said wryly. Finally, Lancelot smiled a little.

 

“I’m sure they’d be very pleased to hear it,” he said. “But that was what I came to speak to you about, actually. I’ve told Gwen that I’ll be leaving in the spring.”

 

“What!? Why?”

 

Lancelot shrugged. “I can’t stay here, not now. I love her, and I want what’s best for her, but seeing her with Arthur — “

 

“Is making you miserable,” Merlin finished for him, understanding. It didn't take much of a stretch of the imagination to put himself in Lancelot's shoes, and he smiled ruefully at his friend. “I suppose I can understand that. But how can I help?”

 

“I was wondering whether you’d had a chance to check out some of those scrying spells,” Lance said. “I know Arthur is going to need information about the Saxons, so I thought, if you could give me some idea of where they are I would be able to start planning my approach before spring arrives.”

 

“Oh.” Guiltily, Merlin thought of the spell-book he’d dropped when Gaius had fetched him to tend to Arthur. What with one thing and another, he had a sneaking suspicion it was still in the same place on the floor of his room, no doubt covered by some unwashed clothing or other detritus. “No, I haven’t really had a chance to do that yet, I’ve been too preoccupied helping Gaius mix potions for Arthur.”

 

“That’s understandable.” Lance flashed him a sympathetic smile. “Is he going to be all right?”

 

Merlin shrugged, not really wanting to discuss the topic. Just thinking about Arthur’s illness made him feel guilty and terrified all over again. “Gaius seems to think so. But he says it depends on what they discover from the body that Gwaine and Percival brought back for him.”

 

Lancelot nodded, and glanced towards the door where Gaius had disappeared.

 

“What do you think they’ve found?”

 

“I really don’t know,” Merlin said. He got to his feet, checked the potion again, and finding it thoroughly boiled lifted the cauldron off the fire with an effort and set it to one side to cool. He glanced at Lance; the knight was looking pensively into the flames, his expression as unhappy and lost as Merlin felt. For a moment, he thought about what it might be like to leave Camelot — to leave Arthur — and wondered whether he could do it if he thought it would be in the King’s best interests. Suddenly he developed a whole new respect for Lancelot’s self-control, even if he didn’t entirely approve of his decision. 

 

“Come on,” he said impulsively. “I have a couple of spell-books now; if you want, we could both take a look through them now for anything that might be of use.”

 

Lancelot’s expression brightened immediately. “Really? That would be wonderful. Thank you, Merlin.”

 

“No problem,” Merlin said, smiling, and went to retrieve his books.

 

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

 

Arthur was no stranger to fever; like any child, he had suffered from his fair share of illnesses growing up, and had learned to hate the bitter-tasting willowbark tea Gaius inevitably prescribed for him with a certain degree of fervour. Now that he was king, of course, he couldn't exactly throw the cup against the wall and sulk the way he had as a boy, but that didn't mean he wasn’t tempted.

 

"I'm sorry, sire," Gaius said, hiding his smile in a manner that suggested he knew exactly what Arthur was thinking. "I've tried everything I can to fix the taste, but I'm afraid adding honey does tend to make it ineffective."

 

"It's fine," Arthur said, swallowing manfully and doing his best to pretend that his tongue wasn't shrivelling up in his mouth. "You've brewed worse."

 

Gaius did in fact chuckle at that, and Arthur relaxed back onto his pillows, hating the uncomfortable ache in his limbs and the pull of the torn skin on his arm and side. His head felt hot and muzzy, as if his thoughts were being smothered beneath a large feather pillow, and he could feel the fever burning under his skin, making the room feel as close as it sometimes did in high summer, despite the fact that the first snow had fallen only a few days before. Quite apart from the personal discomfort of being ill, he resented any delay in the negotiations with the Druids as well. They were making slow enough progress as it was, and at this rate they'd still be haggling over the finer points of the treaty when autumn came around again.

 

Gaius pottered around the room, packing up his things, and Arthur watched him, taking in the preoccupied frown on his forehead and the thoughtful way he weighed each potion in his hands.

 

"It's not getting better, is it?" he asked. Apart from the injuries themselves, Arthur’s fever was a persistent nuisance that caused his mind to wander and his temperature to rise to dangerous levels, and he had seen enough battle wounds to realise that what was happening with his arm and side was far from normal. The gash would not stay closed, no matter what herbs Gaius applied to it, and if he wasn’t kept on a strict rotation of foul-tasting concoctions and even fouler poultices, it would once more open up again, soaking through the bandages within minutes and sapping his strength along with his lifeblood.

 

“It’s only been a couple of days,” Gaius said, without conviction. “But I confess, I would have expected more progress by now.” 

 

"And that's not natural.”

 

 Gaius hesitated. "No, sire."

 

Arthur looked at him. Even with the fever making the edges of his brain feel fuzzy, he knew there was something off about the old man's tone.

 

"Gaius? What aren't you telling me?"

 

The physician fiddled with the strap of his bag, then sighed and met Arthur's eyes. "I have seen poisons like this before, Your Majesty. An illness caused by the use of dark magic.”

 

Arthur's thoughts immediately jumped to Merlin, as they inevitably did these days whenever someone mentioned magic, but an instant later he dismissed the idea as unworthy of contemplation. Even if he had been able to suspect Merlin of the cunning and patience required to hatch such a subtle assassination plot — which, frankly, was entirely laughable given Merlin's complete lack of either cunning or patience, let alone subtlety — the look on his face when he'd burst into Arthur's sickroom that first day would have told him he had the wrong man. Merlin had been sheet-white, his eyes round as saucers, and all right, yes, Arthur was still mad at the other man for keeping secrets but he couldn't deny the real terror in his expression.

 

The next potential option was, of course, the Druids, who could be using the negotiations as a ploy to get close enough to murder the king and restore magic to Camelot that way. It wouldn't be the first time something of the kind had happened, and Arthur could tell by the look on Gaius' face that the possibility had occurred to him too — or perhaps, rather, he expected Arthur to come to that conclusion. It was what Uther would have done.

 

"Are you certain magic is involved?" 

 

Gaius raised his eyebrows. "Yes, sire. I have not yet isolated the enchantment in question, but I have little doubt that your illness is being caused by a magical poison of some form or another.”

 

Arthur nodded. His head was throbbing; he wished he could think clearly. At length, he said, “Supposing you were a magic user who intended to poison a magic-hating king. How would you go about it?”

 

Gaius studied him, and said slowly, “Supposing I were the sort of man who wanted to do such a thing, I imagine I would use the most common poison available. Preferably something quick-acting that would mimic a natural death, so that it could not be traced back to me.”

 

“And yet,” Arthur said. “This poison is of unknown, and clearly magical origin, designed to look like an unnatural infection brought on by an unnaturally inflicted wound. Am I correct?”

 

Gaius nodded. “Yes, sire.”

 

“Which begs the question,” Arthur said, shifting a little against his pillows so as to be more comfortable. “Whether the magic-user knew that this would happen, or whether he — or she — simply made some kind of miscalculation.”

 

“If I might suggest, sire,” Gaius said. “Whoever deployed this poison must have known of its effects — it takes a considerable degree of focused intent to create that sort of evil. He or she must have expected that I would know it was magical in origin, but not of what sort, nor how to cure it. It is certainly not something the average physician would be able to comprehend, let alone treat.”

 

“Meanwhile, I would be left to die slowly and very publicly, leaving Camelot without a king and with the Druids the closest and most natural suspect in his murder,” Arthur said, musingly. “Convenient, wouldn’t you say?”

 

He met Gaius’ gaze, and didn’t think he was imagining the faint look of mingled pride and respect that he saw there.

 

“An astute observation, Your Majesty,” the old man said. “Although, there is another element to the situation I have been meaning to bring to your attention. The method that was used to deliver the poison…It would also seem to point in a very particular direction.”

 

“Yes, that had occurred to me,” Arthur said grimly. “I had been hoping up till now that the rumours of Saxon sorcerers being able to turn into animals at will had been exaggerated, but it seems that someone else believes them, even if I do not.”

 

“More than believes them, I’m afraid.” Gaius closed his medicine bag, his face grave. “I had a visit from two of your knights this morning. They were quite perturbed, and wanted to know if I could explain something to them. You will recall that I had sent them back to the hunting camp in the hopes of obtaining a pure sample of the poison from the boar’s body. However, when they arrived at the clearing they found not the corpse of an animal, but that of a man.”

 

Arthur straightened up, alarmed. “A sorcerer?”

 

“So it would seem.”

 

“But — that doesn’t make any sense,” Arthur said. “Why go to all that trouble of killing me by magical poison if you’re not going to be around to reap the benefits? He had to have known it was a suicide mission.”

 

“I can only assume that there is more than one person involved,” Gaius said. “Although whether Morgana and the Saxons were part of its orchestration or simply to be used as convenient scapegoats is an open question. And as to the Druids…”

 

“As to the Druids,” Arthur sighed. “I would like to believe them innocent, but I know only too well that there are those even amongst my own court who are opposed to this alliance; it stands to reason that there could be rogue Druidic elements as well. Did you know that many of the Druids have radically different religious beliefs?”

 

One of Gaius’ bushy eyebrows arched at him. “I was aware, yes, sire. I have dealt with the Druids from time to time, and they are an interesting people. Highly tolerant of diversity. I’ve always thought we could learn a thing or two from them on the subject of acceptance.”

 

Arthur leaned back against his pillows and eyed the old man warily. He had a feeling he knew what Gaius was getting at, and it was not a subject he was particularly keen to pursue just at that moment. 

 

“Perhaps you’re right,” was all he said. “But the point is, if they can harbour so many different creeds within the same culture, it stands to reason that their political aims might be similarly diverse. One of them could be intending to undermine our negotiations for reasons of their own.”

 

“Well, whoever he is, your would-be assassin clearly isn’t very bright,” Gaius said, a flash of humour crossing his face. “This poison is obscure, yes, but it leaves clear traces by way of its presentation and the contamination of the blood. I am already working on identifying the source of the corruption; after that, it’s only a matter of administering the correct antidote. Assuming there is one, of course.” 

 

“Very well,” Arthur said. He chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. “Then I think I have an idea of how we can trap this idiot assassin of mine — assuming he is as useless as you say.”

 

Gaius listened patiently as Arthur outlined his plan. Whoever had hired the assassin would no doubt be expecting Arthur to become worse and worse until he eventually died, but with Gaius’ potions — and hopefully, soon with his antidote — they would be able to stave off the worst of the symptoms, at least for the time being. They could then put it about that he was getting better, in the hopes of inducing whoever had tried to kill him to give it another go. This time, however, Arthur would be waiting for him, and would capture him in the act and demand to know who had sent him and what their objectives were. 

 

“Won’t that be dangerous?” Gaius objected. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but even with all that my medicine can do, you will still be weak, and therefore vulnerable.”

 

Arthur set his jaw. “I’m sure I can take on one lone assassin,” he said. “Especially if the man is as incompetent as you say. And in addition to catching one of our potential saboteurs, it would give us the chance of obtaining an antidote, or at least discovering what poison was used, which you have to admit would be useful.”

 

Gaius was still dubious, until Arthur pointed out the very real detriment it would be to his health were the assassin to remain at large to murder at his leisure, at which point the physician reluctantly agreed that it was worth a try. As he gathered up his bag in preparation to leave, however, he paused at the door and turned, a frown marring his face. 

 

“Sire,” he said, sounding unusually tentative. “About Merlin…”

 

Arthur stiffened in the bed and raised a hand, cutting him off abruptly. “I don’t wish to talk about Merlin right now, Gaius.”

 

Gaius bowed his head, his feet shuffling a little. But he didn’t turn to leave. “He might be able to help,” he said, a faint note of reproof in his tone. “He is one of the most powerful young sorcerers I know, and he does have a vested interest in your welfare.”

 

Arthur was briefly tempted to ask whether Gaius knew many young sorcerers in Camelot, and if so who they were, but he had enough presence of mind to bite his tongue.

 

“I should have realised you were in on his secret as well,” he said tiredly. “Tell me, does his ‘vested interest’ extend to confiding in his supposed friends, or is it merely confined to sneaking around casting hexes on people behind their backs?”

 

Gaius’ eyebrows did something disapproving, and the corners of his mouth turned down. “It is Merlin’s destiny to protect you, sire, and to help you in any way he can,” he said. “He has undergone considerable dangers in order to live up to that destiny, and no doubt will undergo still more in order to help you fulfil yours. I would not dismiss him so lightly.”

 

Arthur rubbed at the bridge of his nose. His head was truly aching now, and his throat felt parched, the pain in his side lancing outwards and across his torso every time he breathed. He was not in the mood to discuss his manservant’s shortcomings at present, nor did he feel much in the mood for lectures about his destiny. It was too close in character to similar lectures he’d endured from his father when he was a boy, and he did not care to be reminded that there were people — his father among them, he had often thought — who protected and served him more for the sake of his title and status than because of who he was as a man. 

 

“I will consider what you’ve said, Gaius,” he said finally. “But I must ask you to promise not to reveal any of this information to him for the moment. I won’t have him involved until I have decided for certain where we stand.”

 

Gaius nodded, his shoulders drooping slightly. “As you wish, sire,” he said, and took his leave.

 

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

 

With Arthur indisposed, it fell to Gwen to pick up many of his responsibilities in the day-to-day running of the kingdom, some of which were more enjoyable than others. Hearing petitions was one of Gwen’s favourite royal duties, whether Arthur was beside her or not; she relished being able to settle disputes and solve problems amongst the general population of Camelot, and although it wasn’t always easy, she found that for the most part the people listened to her and respected her judgment. Feeling as if she had made a difference in their lives, however small, served to bolster her fledgling confidence and put a smile on her face more often than not. Dealing with the rest of the court, however, was more difficult and far less rewarding. Disputes between courtiers, at least so far as she understood them, tended to be ugly affairs, usually involving clandestine alliances and subterranean feuds, which occasionally burst into the public eye in the form of duels, ill-advised marriages, and hasty accusations. Gwen had quickly learned that if she was to keep the peace and maintain the neutrality of the Crown, she could not rely on the courtiers themselves to tell her the truth — she had to discover it for herself, and even then it was not always clear what action she ought to take in order to settle the issue, since many apparently unjustifiable manoeuvres on one side were all too frequently merely a response to equally unjustifiable schemes on the other. 

 

The worst part, however, was having to run the council sessions all by herself. If she had thought the meetings tedious before, that was nothing compared to what they were like when she not only had to be present but also to take charge, especially when neither Arthur nor Lancelot was there to help her.

 

“My Lord Cornell,” Gwen said tiredly, not for the first time. “Please allow Sir Floridel to have his say. You may rebut his opinion afterwards, but in order for this to serve as a proper debate it is necessary to allow him to finish speaking first.”

 

Lord Cornell glared at her across the table, and folded his arms. “As his social superior,” he said stiffly, “It is my right — “

 

“At this table, we are all equals,” Gwen interrupted evenly. “That is my husband’s wish, and I support it. You will be able to make your own arguments when Floridel has finished. Now please, Sir Floridel, continue.”

 

Sir Floridel, an earnest and recently knighted young man with blond, curly hair and a complexion which suited his name, glanced nervously across the table at his Queen. At Gwen’s reassuring nod, he picked up the thread of conversation which Lord Cornell had so rudely interrupted. “I was only saying that lifting the ban on magic might be beneficial in the long run,” he said, biting his lip. “I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but King Uther — well, I’m not sure he can have considered — that is, the long-term implications of eliminating magic from Camelot are, statistically speaking — “

 

“What Sir Floridel is trying to say,” Sir Bors interjected humorously, “Is that the ban on magic may get rid of one danger, but it presents a whole host of other problems as well.” He nudged Floridel encouragingly. “Go on, lad, explain to the Queen here what you were telling me.”

 

“Well, it’s like this, you see,” Floridel said, clearly warming to the subject. “Magic isn’t just useful as a weapon — it can do a whole host of other things as well. Protecting the crops, for one thing, or healing people, manipulating the weather, enhancing the food supply…” He trailed off, apparently realising that he was coming off as a little too enthusiastic given that magic was still, at least for the moment, illegal. “Anyway. Banning magic means that Camelot is at a disadvantage compared to those kingdoms who embrace it. Think of all the things we could accomplish if we had access to that kind of power!”

 

“I disagree,” Lord Cornell burst out, apparently unable to hold his tongue any longer. “Magic is the reason we’re in this mess to begin with. What kind of society would we be if we allowed people with unnatural gifts to run around freely, doing as they pleased? How could we ever hope to come close to _equality_ ,” and here he shot Gwen a dirty look, “If an unknown proportion of our population is permitted to use gifts which the other part has no access to?”

 

“People can learn magic,” Sir Percival pointed out, in his quiet voice. “It isn’t necessarily innate. That makes it more egalitarian than some other forms of power, such as the inheritance of land or money.”

 

“Perhaps,” Lord Cornell allowed. “But how far does that go, exactly? As with any skill, there are bound to be some people who are more adept at magic than others, and those who have more power will find ways to manipulate and control those who don’t. It’s not just a matter of lifting the ban and being done with it. We have to find ways to regulate the use of magic — and how do we do that, when the majority of those doing the regulating have no magical knowledge to speak of, let alone the power required to get others to fall in line? A law is only as strong as those who enforce it, and sorcerers are far more dangerous than your average criminal. Worse, they have the power to make us all forget about that danger, if they so choose, or even bend our actions, our very thoughts, to accommodate their will.” He shook his head and leaned back in his chair, satisfied that he had made his point. “No, it can’t be done. It _shouldn’t_ be done.”

 

“I agree,” Lord Ranulf put in. “That kind of power is unethical, not to mention dangerous — it needs to be stamped out for good.”

 

“But think of all the good it could do,” Sir Floridel said passionately. “We could feed the poor — eliminate disease — “

 

“Fairytales,” Lord Ranulf huffed. “You didn’t grow up in Camelot, boy, or you would understand. The use of magic always comes at a price, and it’s one that is too high for Camelot to pay.”

 

“Consider the political advantages, though,” another of the courtiers, Lord Bromwell, pointed out. He had a smaller estate near the border of Camelot’s lands, which meant that he was more invested in trade than some of the other Lords present. “Floridel is right, without magic Camelot does risk being left behind by some of her neighbours in terms of goods and capital. If we drop the ban, the Druids have offered to make it worth our while.”

 

“And we do have the Saxons to consider,” Gwen added. “How can we protect the kingdom against magical attack if we won’t allow the use of magic in our own defence?”

 

“Well, of course you would say that,” Lord Ranulf said, with a dismissive gesture. “You spent years as Morgana’s maid; no doubt her opinions have influenced yours considerably. And therein lies the danger.”

 

Gwen gritted her teeth, reminding herself that it was fair point, even if it was rather rudely expressed. “The Lady Morgana was my friend,” she said. “But that does not make me incapable of thinking for myself.”

 

Ranulf favoured her with a pitying smile. “But how would you know?” he asked, as if speaking to a child. “If she put a spell on you, then you might _think_ you’re thinking for yourself, and still be mistaken.” When Gwen did not answer, he went on: “With all due respect, Your Majesty, magic is insidious, the sort of power that corrupts absolutely, and one which is almost impossible to detect, even for yourself. It can appear completely innocuous — like a simple hunting accident, for example, or an unexpected infection that takes a healthy man unawares.”

 

The insinuation was obvious; Gwen could hardly have missed it, and none of the others gathered around the table did either, if the sudden burst of shouts and exclamations was any indication. She felt herself going cold all over, then hot as the humiliation registered. 

 

“Lord Ranulf, if you have an accusation to make, I suggest you speak plainly,” she said icily, when the shouting had finally died down. “And keep in mind that you are speaking to your Queen.”

 

“Forgive me, Your Majesty.” The courtier bowed his head, an unpleasant smirk on his face. “I thought I spoke among equals, but I can see that I was mistaken. In any case, I meant no offence. Your Majesty has stated in the past that your father was executed for sorcery, and now that the Lady Morgana was a close friend. To suggest that such proximity might be dangerous for all concerned was merely an observation.”

 

“And a very pointed one,” Sir Gwaine said, eyes narrowed. “Tell me, My Lord, how are we to know that you are not yourself bewitched, since you seem so adamant about the matter?”

 

The furore which accompanied this statement lasted far longer than the first, and was considerably louder. Raising her voice, Gwen tried futilely to make herself heard above the din, knowing even as she did so that she had entirely lost control of the situation. Lord Ranulf, of all people, could have very little idea of the impact which magic had had on her personal life, whatever he might think, but that did not mean she was comfortable allowing his speculation to take hold. For one thing, it would inevitably get back to Arthur, who would be furious and likely do something gallant to avenge her honour - and for another, it made telling him her secret all the more difficult, and goodness knew they none of them could afford any more discord at the moment. 

 

At last, tiring of the tumult, she pushed herself slowly to her feet and waited, letting both her sex and her status do what her voice could not and regain the room's attention. 

 

“My lords,” Gwen said finally, bracing herself on the table as she had seen Arthur do more than once, when he wanted to impress them. “Let us concede that we are none of us operating at our best at present, and agree to let the matter rest. King Arthur is improving daily, for which I am most grateful, and I would hate for us to quarrel in his absence. Therefore, I propose an adjournment for the time being. I will reconvene the council when we have all had further time to consider the matter. Is there anything else we need to address before we conclude this session?”

 

“What about the scouts that Arthur sent out last month?” piped up Sir Bors. “Have they returned?”

 

“Not yet.” Gwen shook her head. “But with the weather the way it is, it’s hardly any surprise that they’ve been delayed. With luck, they should reach us by Michaelmas, if not before.”

 

This had seemed to satisfy him; the rest of the knights and councillors gradually dispersed, with Gwen bringing up the rear. She moved ever more slowly, now, and even if Gaius hadn’t told her as much she would have known that her time was drawing near. There was a certain heaviness to her body, as if gravity were already at work on the life within, eager to bring it out into the world. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but it did make her careful, like a woman carrying an over-full basket who was trying not to spill, her movements coming all the more gingerly as she strove to appear unruffled and nonchalant.

 

Sir Gwaine was waiting for her outside the council chamber, a sympathetic smile on his face.

 

“My lady,” he said, falling into step beside her. “I would like to apologise for my behaviour in there. Lord Ranulf is an ass, but there was no call to make your life difficult as well. I’m sorry.”

 

“Apology accepted, Sir Knight,” Gwen said with an answering smile. She took his proffered arm with gratitude, and let him steer her in the direction of her bedchamber — the small one off the royal wing, since Arthur was still recovering. “There are days when I would like to shout at him myself.”

 

Gwaine flashed her a charming grin. “I hope I satisfied your desires, then.”

 

“I’m sure you’d like to think so,” Gwen said, laughing.

 

He pressed a palm to his chest, feigning a wound. “Alas! You cut me to the quick.”

 

“You’ll recover.”

 

Gwaine shook his head mournfully, but dropped the act a moment later. 

 

“Speaking of recovery,” he said, more soberly. “Is Arthur truly improving, like you said?”

 

“Gaius tells me he is on the mend,” Gwen said. She saw Gwaine look at her quickly; for all his boisterousness and apparent unconcern, the man was not stupid, and could hardly have failed to notice that she did not make the same observation herself. “He should be back on his feet soon.”

 

“And complaining about all of us having become soft in his absence, no doubt.” But the expression in his eyes was assessing, watchful. “Has he spoken to you about the Druids at all?”

 

“Not really.” He hadn’t spoken much to her about anything, lately, but then, she had never been the one who could bring him out of one of his moods. That had always been Merlin’s job. She sighed. “He complains often about the delay his injury has caused to the negotiations, but nothing further.”

 

Gwaine seemed to weigh his next words carefully before he spoke. “The Druids were…exceedingly helpful, when the King was injured. From what I hear they have been most solicitous of his health.”

 

Gwen raised her eyebrows. “Is there any reason why they shouldn’t be?” she asked warily. “They are guests in his castle, after all, and hope to make an alliance with him. Anything that bodes ill for Arthur will surely delay their own gratification accordingly.”

 

Gwaine shrugged. She got the impression that he wanted to say something else, but they were approaching the corridor that led to her chambers, so instead of continuing the conversation any further he unhooked her hand from his elbow and bowed over it with a courtly flourish. 

 

“And here I must leave you. Do call on me if you feel the need to yell at pompous lordlings in the future,” he said, grinning up at her with a twinkle in his eyes. “I think you’ll find I am most happy to oblige.”

 

Gwen snorted. “Thank you, Sir Gwaine,” she said, with a mock curtsey. “No one appreciates your devotion to duty more than I.”

 

He left her with a wink and a smile, and Gwen shook her head. It wasn’t until she reached the door of her newly appointed bedroom that she realised he hadn’t taken his free hand off his sword hilt for the entire journey. She frowned, her fingers resting on the wood as she looked back down the corridor. Gwaine wasn’t the sort of man to engage in unnecessary displays of force, yet she hardly needed an armed escort in her own castle. Had he been trying to tell her something? And if so, why didn’t he feel he could speak openly? She had often thought that subtlety was lost on him, but it seemed that everyone around her was full of unexpected secrets these days.

 

In any case, she thought, it was hardly a mystery what he had been hinting at. If magic _was_ involved in Arthur’s injuries and subsequent poisoning, then the list of potential suspects was fairly short. It was simply a process of elimination - and she knew exactly where she wanted to start. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: The following chapter contains the use of semi-invasive magic against the subject's wishes. It's not intentionally harmful, but there are some consent issues which make it potentially problematic.

 

 

 

S I X

 

 

 

Merlin hadn't slept for almost a fortnight. Well, he'd dozed a little, that first day or so when he was still hoping that Gaius would miraculously come up with a cure, but even then his sleep had been broken by a series of particularly nasty nightmares, so it had not been what one might call restful. After it became apparent that the poison was not going to be so easily dispatched, however, he soon gave up on sleep altogether in favour of helping Gaius to brew the potions and salves required to soothe the king's injuries, and spent most of his time leafing through his spell-books in search some kind of antidote. Any spare minute he could muster was devoted to helping Lancelot with his self-imposed quest to scry out the whereabouts of the Saxon army, but so far nothing they had tried had been particularly successful.

 

"You know, Merlin," Gaius said, eyeing his apprentice over the top of a jar of some foul-smelling liquid. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing."

 

"What are you talking about?" Merlin kept his eyes on the poultice he was making — well, destroying would probably be more accurate. It was the fifth time he had re-tied the bundle of crushed herbs and the whole thing was starting to look rather bedraggled. "I'm helping you."

 

"You're avoiding Arthur," Gaius said succinctly. "And you're slipping healing spells into my potions. Don’t think I haven’t been paying attention."

 

Merlin grimaced, and stopped what he was doing. He couldn't really deny it — he _was_ spelling the potions and he _was_ avoiding Arthur, and had been since he’d found the King curled up in agony on the floor of his chambers. He hated seeing Arthur in pain, and he was itching to do something, anything, to help, but whenever he suggested he should ask Gwaine and Percival what they had discovered or hinted at using magic to counteract the poison, Gaius insisted that he was close to a breakthrough and handed Merlin another weighty tome to peruse. He was beginning to suspect the older man was simply trying to keep him out of trouble, for which he was equal parts irritated and grateful.

 

"I don't know what else to do, Gaius," he said, dropping onto a stool with a sigh. "I just want things to go back to the way they were."

 

"Things can never go back to the way they were, Merlin," the physician said patiently. “But they will get better eventually. You’ll see.”

 

"Assuming Arthur lives that long."

 

Merlin glared moodily at the poultice, forlorn now on the bench, and to his horror watched as it spontaneously burst into flames. 

 

"Shit!" He scrambled over to put it out, smothering it with another piece of cloth, and once the fire had dissipated and the workbench was no longer in danger of burning the place down, he dropped it in the bin with a moue of disgust. "I can't even do magic right anymore."

 

"You're worried," Gaius said gently. "We all are. Why don't you take the king up his draught and ask him for yourself how he's doing? Perhaps that will put your mind at rest."

 

“I guess so." Grudgingly, Merlin accepted the proffered bottle of potion. If nothing else, checking on the king always helped to ease his anxiety, although he preferred to do so when Arthur was unlikely to be awake enough to notice his presence. "Maybe you're right."

 

"Of course I am, Merlin," Gaius said, his tone faintly wry. "If only more people would recognise it as you do."

 

Merlin snorted, and left before Gaius did himself an injury, quirking his eyebrow up that high.

                                                           

  

 

 

Arthur was sleeping when Merlin entered his chambers, his brow furrowed and his hair damp with sweat. Dwarfed by the huge bed and rumpled blankets he had never looked smaller or more vulnerable, and Merlin felt his heart give a squeeze as he stopped just inside the doorway, the king’s sleeping draught in his hand. Gwen was seated at Arthur’s bedside, bathing his forehead with a moist cloth, and she looked up as Merlin entered.

 

“Oh, good,” she said softly, when she saw what he was carrying. “He’s in so much pain, I can’t — I’ve been doing all that I can, but I’m afraid — “ Her voice wavered and broke. “I’m afraid I’m just making things worse.”

 

Merlin set the tonic down on a nearby table and crossed the room towards her, opening his arms in a wordless gesture. Gwen sagged gratefully into the hug, the mask of the strong and implacable queen crumpling for just a moment as she allowed her true feelings to surface.

 

“He’ll be all right,” Merlin told her, struggling to keep the strain from showing in his voice. “You’ll see. He’s not going to die just yet.”

 

The queen pulled back a little, then, looking up at him with wide eyes. “Is that a possibility?” she demanded, sounding panicked. “When Gaius was here before he said — he _promised_ me he wouldn’t — “

 

“No!” Merlin exclaimed. He caught hold of both her arms in a bracing grip. “No, Gwen, he’s going to be fine. I won’t let anything happen to him, all right? Just take care of yourself, and the baby, and I’ll do the rest.”

 

It shouldn’t have meant much to her, the word of a servant with little to no medicinal talents, but strangely Gwen seemed to take comfort from that. Some of the tension left her body, and she nodded, squaring her shoulders as she looked back at the bed. “You’ll take care of him?” she asked, somewhat unnecessarily. “I have to talk to the Council again, they’ve asked me to keep them up to date on his condition, but I couldn’t bear to leave him alone like this.”

 

“Of course,” Merlin assured her. He gestured to the potion. “I’ll stay with him, and when he wakes up I’ll give him his medicine. You do what you need to do.”

 

The queen smiled, and kissed his cheek before stepping back.

 

“Thank you, Merlin,” she said. “You’re a good friend.”

 

Merlin dredged up a smile, trying not to look too guilty. He hadn’t felt like that good of a friend lately, to either of them, although she couldn’t know that. He watched her go, her skirts swishing quietly against the stone floor, every inch a queen once more, before letting out his breath and taking the seat she had just vacated. When he looked over at the king, it was to see Arthur looking back at him, his eyes mere slits in his flushed face.

 

“You’re awake,” Merlin said blankly, startled. “I — how are you feeling?”

 

“As well as can be expected,” Arthur replied, sounding cool and formal even now. Something in Merlin twisted at the knowledge of what it must cost him, to sound so in control when he so clearly felt utterly wretched. There was a time when Arthur wouldn’t have scrupled to hide such weakness from him. “Where’s Gaius?”

 

“He’s still working on his potions,” Merlin said. “So he sent me with your tonic instead.”

  
Arthur nodded, although he didn’t appear happy with the situation. He eyed the vial in Merlin’s hand and made as if to sit up, the movement weak and without much energy. “I suppose this one also tastes like toad water?” he asked, falling back against the pillows. Merlin nodded, alarmed at this obvious loss of strength. Arthur was so pale, and so worn, it was difficult to believe Gaius’ assurances that he was getting better. Merlin swallowed, and tentatively shifted towards the edge of the bed.

 

“May I?”

 

Arthur inclined his head, and Merlin helped him to sit upright, then unstoppered the bottle and put it to his lips. Arthur made a face, but drank it to the dregs, then leaned back with a sigh and Merlin stepped away from him, trying to disguise the tightness in his chest. 

 

“Would you like me to read to you?” he asked, uncertain what else to do. “Or I could — I could get you a drink of water, or —”

 

The look Arthur gave him was but a pale imitation of his usual glare. “I’m not a child, Merlin.”

 

“No, but — “ Merlin stopped, and shrugged. He sat down on Gwen’s stool by the head of the bed and pulled his legs up to his chest, resting his chin on his knees and regarding his erstwhile friend with a growing sense of helplessness. Arthur looked back at him, the same assessing expression on his face that had been there ever since he had discovered Merlin’s secret — at least when Arthur deigned to look at him at all. 

 

“The Druids send their good wishes,” Merlin offered at last, smiling nervously in an attempt to deflect Arthur’s attention from himself. “Aerys even offered to have one of the healers in his party take a look at you, although Gwen assured him it wouldn’t be necessary.”

 

Arthur nodded, a minute motion of the head, and opened his mouth to speak. Merlin rushed on, determined not to give him the opportunity. “She told him you were getting better, although I don’t think he believed it. Everyone is very tense, you can tell, and sometimes I think —“

 

“You left your gloves.”

 

Merlin stopped talking abruptly, thrown by this apparent non-sequitur. “I — What?”

 

“Your gloves, Merlin,” Arthur said, with a trace of his old impatience. “The ones I gave you for the library.”

 

“Oh.” Merlin couldn’t exactly claim not to remember what Arthur was talking about, although why the king had suddenly decided to bring it up now, of all times, he had no idea. Determined to remain cheerful, he held up his hands and said brightly, “I didn’t need them, see? My hands are fine. Definitely warm enough.”

 

His hands, as it happened, were covered in chilblains and calluses from working so hard without adequate protection from the cold, and the look Arthur shot him suggested that invalid or not he had hardly failed to miss that fact. Blushing, Merlin tucked the offending appendages under his thighs and cast frantically about for some way of changing the topic, but could find none. Arthur had a look that said he was about to speak again, so Merlin sprang to his feet, forestalling him.

 

“I’ll just go and get them now, then, shall I?” he babbled, crossing the room to the chest where he knew the articles in question would likely be kept. “No time like the present, and now that I think about it I could always use an extra pair of gloves. Especially since Gaius has me out collecting herbs for your poultices in all kinds of weather. It is getting a bit colder now, isn’t it?”

 

Arthur said nothing, and Merlin retrieved the gloves from the side of the chest, where they had slipped down beside some of Arthur’s old summer tunics that were still in need of mending. For an instant, he caught the faint scent of grass clippings, heat, and sweat, and a sudden wave of nostalgia washed over him, making his throat tighten. He slid the lid of the chest closed very carefully, and looked at the gloves in his hands. They were still as fine as he remembered; someone had even sewn up the hole in that one finger with tiny, perfect stitches, making them by far the most exquisite thing he had ever owned. He looked at Arthur.

 

“Are you sure…?”

 

“Just take the damned gloves, Merlin,” Arthur ordered, sounding for once much more like his normal self. As if realising this, he looked away, scowling at the opposite wall. “In case you haven’t noticed, there’s still a lot of work to do in the East Wing, and the weather is likely to get colder before it gets warmer. Unless being a sorcerer makes you impervious to ice and snow, as well as common sense?”

 

He said it mockingly, with none of the good humour that had previously characterised the insults they shared with one another, and yet the simple statement made Merlin catch his breath. It was the first time Arthur had acknowledged the truth out loud, at least to Merlin’s face, and hearing it stated so bluntly like that felt strange; dangerous, even, as if speaking the words would be enough to change Arthur’s mind and prompt him to order Merlin’s immediate execution. 

 

“No, sire,” Merlin said cautiously. “Although I do know a couple of heating spells that have come in useful from time to time.”

 

Arthur’s eyebrow lifted, like he couldn’t decide whether the answer was meant to be a jest or in earnest, and the ache in Merlin’s throat worsened as he realised how much Arthur must mistrust him now, if something so innocent could be grounds for suspicion. 

 

“I’ll tell you about it some other time,” he said, glancing back down at the gloves in his hands and wondering whether he really would. He stroked a finger over the soft leather, and when he looked back up it was to find Arthur watching him from beneath heavy eyelids.

 

“You’ve had magic for a long time.” It wasn’t a question, but Merlin nodded anyway, his heart flipping over in his chest.

 

“All my life.”

 

“And you use it to do your chores and not-warm your fingers?”

 

Merlin almost laughed. “Among other things,” he said. “I use it to take care of you, Arthur. That’s what it’s for.”

 

Arthur made a small noise that might have been derision, but when Merlin looked at him his eyes were already drooping, his face going slack with sleep. Gaius’ potion was obviously taking effect. Merlin shifted in his seat, reaching forward to brush the hair gently from Arthur’s sweaty forehead, and could not resist letting a small tendril of his power curl outwards affectionately, a tender gesture not unlike a mother’s goodnight kiss. Beneath the fugue of illness and disordered humours that clung to Arthur’s skin, the magic settled into Arthur’s body like dust, and he thought he caught the faint trace of — _something_ — underneath, a growing shadow spreading outwards towards Arthur’s heart.

 

Merlin sat back, his hand dropping back to his side as he stared at the sleeping man in front of him. His own heart had begun beating rapidly at his discovery, but he knew without a doubt that he was right. This was no mere poison, natural or otherwise. It was magic. Dark magic.

 

Someone was trying to kill the king.

 

 

 

 

“It’s not working, is it?” Merlin demanded, striding into the infirmary without bothering to knock. The door hit the wall and bounced back, closing behind him with a slam. “Whatever you’re giving him, it isn’t enough.”

 

“I’m doing the best I can, Merlin,” Gaius said mildly, but his gaze, when he looked up, was troubled. “The poison which Arthur encountered is potent, and — “

 

“And magical,” Merlin said, voice flat. “It is magical, isn’t it?”

 

“I believe it may be, yes.”

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Merlin asked. He settled onto the stool on the other side of Gaius’ workbench and glared moodily at the ingredients the other man was currently mixing, although at least this time he was able to refrain from setting them on fire. “If you knew it was magical, surely you know how I can use magic to cure it.”

 

"The king specifically told me not to let you try anything,” Gaius said sharply. “He was most emphatic on the subject, and the more I learn about this poison the more I agree with him. This kind of magic is deeply dangerous, quite apart from the fact that there may be assassins involved.”

 

“I don’t care!” Merlin burst out. “He’s dying! If it’s a choice between him being dead and me taking a bit of a risk with magic, then I'll gladly take the latter option.”

 

"Merlin, think about what you're saying."

 

"I won't endanger his life, Gaius," Merlin said, fingers closing white-knuckled around the edge of the table. "I won't let _him_ endanger his life, not for this. Arthur's worth more than — than magic, than destiny. He's important. You know he is."

 

"I'm not saying that he isn't," Gaius said, his tone reasonable. "I'm just saying that you're a little too close to the issue to think rationally. Arthur is a grown man. He knows what the risks are and has made his decision. We must respect his choice."

 

"And if he didn't know?" Merlin demanded. "If he didn't know I had magic, what would you be saying I should do then? You'd tell me I should heal him, no matter what he thought of the concept."

 

"I might. But then again, it is a risk, Merlin. You're not the only one who loves Arthur, my boy, but some things demand caution. Magical poisons are notoriously unpredictable. We have no idea what adding your power to the situation might do. Fortunately, there is another way.”

 

"A way that could cost Arthur his arm — or his life,” Merlin retorted. "Gaius, I have to do something.”

 

“What you have to do is be patient,” Gaius said, and for the first time Merlin registered the anger in his tone. “Charging in with a magical mystery cure may only make the situation worse in the long run. If you want to help Arthur, then I suggest you get to work and help me test these potential antidotes.”

 

Frustrated, Merlin glared at him, but finally did as he was told. Gaius had no idea what he was talking about, he thought moodily, pouring another potion into a vial and putting it on the shelf ready for testing. He hadn’t felt the way the magic was eating away at Arthur, turning his very blood against him. He didn’t know how Arthur _felt_ , smothered and dull-headed and trapped inside of his own body. Which meant that it was up to Merlin to do something about it, no matter what Gaius thought. He had almost failed Arthur twice already: he would not let it happen again. 

 

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

For the next few interminable days, Arthur slept, woke, took his medicine, reassured his wife he wasn’t dying, and slept again. At night, he lay awake for as long as he could, waiting for something to happen. The cycle would have been monotonous except for the fact that in order to have been bored he would have had to have remained conscious for more than a few hours at a time, something which seemed to become more and more difficult as time went on. It was not a fact he felt comfortable dwelling on. Although only Gaius was aware that the report of his improving condition was a lie, it was becoming increasingly obvious that the ruse couldn’t hold out much longer — not when Arthur was so clearly getting worse. If Gaius didn’t come up with an antidote soon, the assassin wouldn’t have to make a second attempt to kill him, because he would already be dead.

 

Then, not long after they had put his plan into effect, Arthur woke with a start in a still-dark room. For a moment he couldn’t figure out what had disturbed him. He was not a deep sleeper, generally, but he had been dreaming, and judging by the lack of light streaming through the windows it was not yet dawn. He could think of nothing that should have awoken him on an ordinary night, but as the ache in his body returned, he remembered their trap and his heart rate sped up at the thought that it might have borne fruit at last.

 

Holding himself as still as possible and trying to breathe normally, he opened his eyes to thin slits and tried to make out whether anyone else was in the room. It wasn’t difficult — a moment later he heard a muffled crash, then a male voice swore viciously under its breath from a few feet away, and Arthur almost stopped breathing.

 

He recognised that voice. He ought to, after all these years spent practically side-by-side with the man, but that didn’t make the shock of recognition any less painful. What was Merlin doing in his chambers at this time of night? He couldn’t be bringing Arthur an antidote, because that could wait until morning, and in any case Gaius would have come with him. And if he were bringing news of any other sort, it would not have been necessary to creep around instead of banging on Arthur’s door to wake him up the way he usually did. On the other hand, it was hardly likely that he was merely running errands or doing his chores at this time of night. Could Merlin be the one who was trying to kill him? Even to Arthur’s fever-blurred mind, the idea made very little sense, yet he couldn't shake the fear that perhaps he had fatally misread the situation after all. It would hardly have been the first time.

 

Merlin was standing beside the bed now, and although Arthur had his eyes shut tight, breathing shallowly in an effort not to give himself away, he thought he could almost see the other man through his eyelids. He knew he should probably confront him, demand to know what on earth he thought he was doing here, but the thought of being lied to again was unbearable, so he remained still, listening to the soft sounds as Merlin shuffled closer. He heard Merlin take a deep breath, as if psyching himself up for something, and had a moment’s irrational thought, _oh god he’s actually going to do it, I need to move or he’s going to kill me_ , before it was too late, and Merlin’s warm palm came to rest on Arthur’s sweaty brow.

 

“ _Hælan_ ,” he murmured. 

 

Arthur caught a flash of brilliant gold even through his closed eyelids, and in spite of himself he stiffened, catching his breath as he waited for the pain to hit. Instead, what he felt was a rush of gentle warmth, and an unexpected sweetness pulsed through him, making him arch from the mattress with a gasp that was almost sexual. Power flooded through his body, spreading from the light touch of Merlin’s hand on his forehead downward towards the tips of his fingers and the soles of his feet, leaving behind an aching sense of loss but also a sense of freedom, as if Arthur had just been released from a weight he hadn’t known was holding him down. 

  
When it was over, Arthur lay very still for a moment, panting and half-hard, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Merlin hadn’t killed him, but his fever seemed to have broken, and the pain from his shoulder and chest had receded. Merlin had been…helping him?

 

He heard Merlin turning to leave and before he could think better of it one of his hands shot out and gripped Merlin tightly by the wrist.

 

“What did you do?” Arthur demanded, voice hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. “What the hell did you just do, Merlin?”

 

Merlin jumped, clearly having had no idea that Arthur was awake, and even in the dim light Arthur could see his body language change as he realised what must have happened. He tugged weakly at Arthur’s arm, trying to free himself from what was probably a bruising grip, but Arthur only held on tighter.

 

“ _Tell me_ ,” he snarled.

 

“I didn’t — I wasn’t — I was only trying to help,” Merlin stuttered, still pawing at Arthur’s hand around his wrist. “Your illness, it wasn’t natural, and it wasn’t getting better. Someone cursed you with dark magic, to make you sick, so I — well, I got rid of it. You’re feeling better now, aren’t you?”

 

Arthur was, but that was beside the point. He gritted his teeth, refusing to analyse just why he was so furious. Merlin had screwed up his plans, and that alone was reason enough to be angry. “If I had wanted your help, I would have asked for it.”

 

“But — “

 

“How many other times have you used magic on me?” he growled. “How many times, Merlin?”

 

Merlin swallowed, but he seemed to have realised that Arthur was serious, and stopped fighting to get away. “A few times,” he whispered. “I’m not sure how many. But I only ever did it to save your life, Arthur, I swear — “

 

“Get out,” Arthur ordered, ignoring whatever else it was Merlin wanted to say and dropping his wrist like it was something dangerous. “And tell Gaius I want to see him. Now.”

 

“Is there anything I — ?”

 

“No,” Arthur snapped. “No, I think you’ve done quite enough for one evening. Go and fetch Gaius.”

 

Still not taking the hint, Merlin stepped further towards him, reaching out with one hand. “Maybe I didn’t get all of it. I can check, if you — “

 

Arthur pushed himself away from the questing hand so vigorously he almost ended up falling out of bed. Merlin stopped, arm still out-stretched, and Arthur caught himself before he could entirely overbalance. “Don’t touch me,” he said, low and hard. His hands fisted in the bedding beneath him, and he tried not to think about how powerless he actually was, if Merlin decided to ignore his command. There were guards just outside, he reminded himself, and so far Merlin had shown no inclination towards hostility. Still, his heartbeat came hard and fast at the base of his throat and the seconds which elapsed before Merlin slowly dropped his hand back to his side were some of the longest in Arthur’s life.

 

“I’ll fetch Gaius,” Merlin said, his voice little over a whisper. It was too dark to properly read his expression. “I — sorry. I’ll just go and find him for you, sire. It won’t take long.”

 

 

 

 

When Merlin left, Arthur sat himself up against the headboard and ran a hand through his hair, letting out a ragged breath. The pounding of his heart was beginning to slow down now, but the fear and anger which had gripped him had yet to fully subside. 

 

It wasn’t so much the fact that Merlin had interfered with his plans which had angered Arthur, at least not entirely. It was the way Merlin had so casually used magic on him without asking, and that he had intended to do so without even letting Arthur know about it. Perhaps it was petty of him, given that Merlin had obviously thought he was in serious danger, but Arthur hated being lied to almost as much as he disliked having his choices taken away from him in so high-handed a fashion. How many times had Merlin used magic on him without his knowing? Would Arthur ever find out? More importantly, what had Merlin _done_ to him — tonight or in the past? How could Arthur trust that any of his actions, his achievements, had been his own when Merlin clearly had no compunction about stepping in to make everything better for him with a wave of his hand?

 

Even more disturbing, if Arthur was honest with himself, was how he had reacted to the entire affair. When he’d first thought Merlin had come to kill him, he’d been stunned into immobility, not just by the surprise — although there had been a fair amount of that too — but by the sheer, uncompromising hurt that he’d felt at the revelation. Arthur had experienced betrayals before, too many of them for his taste, but none of them had ever cut him to the quick quite like the thought that Merlin might be a magical assassin after all. And then there had been the magic… He reached down to palm at his cock for a moment, remembering. It had felt so — familiar, affectionate, playful. His entire body had thrilled towards it, and even now he felt the faint echo of a craving that bordered on addiction. It scared him. Was that what it felt like, to use magic? No wonder his father had always warned him about how seductive it could be.

 

Conscious of Gaius’ imminent arrival, Arthur stripped his cock with brisk efficiency, focusing only on relieving the ache and _not_ , he told himself firmly, on the sensation of Merlin leaning over him, the warmth of his breath ghosting over Arthur’s cheek, and definitely not the way his magic had flooded through him, like the first taste of summer wine. 

 

When Gaius knocked on the door some minutes later, Arthur was leaning back against his pillows, all signs of his arousal successfully dealt with and tidied away. 

 

“Come in,” he said, gesturing for Gaius to take the seat beside his bed. “I’m afraid there’s been a slight change of plan.”

 

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

 

Gwen visited Arthur's chambers the next morning to find him in a towering temper, although to her relief the worst of his illness seemed to have faded during the night. She wasn’t sure what Gaius and Merlin had done, but her conviction that they _had_ done something was growing by the hour, especially given the way Arthur reacted when she had asked him why Merlin seemed to have disappeared. 

 

“He’s busy,” he said shortly. “Don’t _fuss,_ Guinevere, I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself without his help.”

 

‘Perfectly capable’ was perhaps an overstatement, but Gwen wisely did not point this out. Instead, she helped her husband into a fresh tunic and hose and watched as he picked over his breakfast, trying her best not to hover but merely to observe. Physically, Arthur was clearly much improved; his fever had broken, and he no longer moved like a man three times his age. The fact that he was interested in food again was also a good sign, although the scowl he directed at his sausages was not.

 

“Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you, or do I have to guess?” she asked, leaning over to steal a piece of fruit from the bowl in front of him. When he shot her an aggrieved look, she smiled, swallowed, and stole another piece. “It’s obvious something has upset you — a tall, skinny something with black hair and large ears, unless I’m very much mistaken. What has Merlin done this time?”

 

Arthur shielded his plate from her with one hand and stabbed at a sausage with what Gwen felt was an excess of aggression, especially given that the poor thing was already dead. “What makes you think he’s done anything?”

 

“The fact that I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since yesterday,” Gwen said promptly. “And the fact that he’s one of the few people who manages to get under your skin enough to make you this angry. Now, are you going to tell me what this is about, or do I have to hold the pineapple hostage until you confess?”

 

Her husband glared at her, although there was something about his expression this time which suggested he was holding back a smile. “Don’t be childish, Guinevere.”

 

“Not childish,” she said. “Politic. You have something I want, I have something you want — it’s a fair trade.”

 

Arthur stared at her for a moment longer, his mouth twitching, then he shook his head.

 

“Sometimes I think I had no idea what I was in for, marrying you,” he said, though not without humour. He hesitated for a few seconds more, as if picking his words carefully, then heaved a long sigh, and leaned his head against the back of his chair.

 

“You remember when I told you that Merlin has a secret?”

 

“I remember.”

 

“Well, last night…” He glanced away, looking towards the door as if he feared being overheard. “I suppose you could say I found out rather more about it than I really wanted to.”

 

Gwen studied him. He looked troubled, dark smudges under his eyes as if he hadn't slept, and for all of his improvements he still looked a little ill, like he was about to be sick. Gwen pushed the bowl of fruit towards him and gestured for him to eat, hoping that a distraction would take his mind off things. “Maybe it isn’t as bad as you think,” she suggested, watching as he picked up a grape and absent-mindedly bit into it. “This is _Merlin_ we’re talking about, after all.”

 

“You don’t understand,” Arthur said grimly. “What he did…”

 

He let his voice trail off, shaking his head, and for the first time Gwen felt a genuine twinge of alarm. She had been assuming that Merlin’s secret was harmless — after all, what was a bit of magic here and there if it saved Arthur’s life? But what if Merlin was mixed up in something else — something dangerous? She knew Merlin, and she knew without a doubt that he was loyal to Arthur and would never deliberately hurt either of them, but she also knew that he had a tendency to throw himself into harm’s way without thinking things through. He was forever getting himself into one scrape or another. And Arthur looked so worried…

 

“Whatever it was, I’m sure he was only trying to help,” she said finally. “Isn’t that the main thing?”

 

But Arthur just shrugged, staring moodily down at the table, and didn’t react when George came in to clear the breakfast things away. Gwen chewed on her lower lip. In all her years at the castle, both before her marriage and after it, she had seldom seen Arthur so disquieted about anything. He was usually a very decisive man; the majority of his brooding tended to be confined to emotional problems rather than logistical ones, which led her to wonder whether he was actually considering punishing Merlin for whatever transgression he had committed, and was feeling conflicted about it. The idea upset her enough that she said without thinking, “I thought you were starting to change your mind about magic.”

 

Arthur’s head came up so fast Gwen wouldn’t have been surprised if it had given him whiplash.

 

“What?”

 

“Not that, you know, I’m saying Merlin has been using magic or anything,” Gwen backtracked hastily, realising her mistake too late. “I mean, just in general, if — I thought perhaps — “

 

“How long have you known?” Arthur demanded, dismissing this stream of babble with a sharp movement of his hand. “When did he tell you?”

 

“He didn’t tell me,” Gwen said defensively. “I guessed."

 

"You guessed."

 

"I’ve had my suspicions for a while, but I wasn’t certain until you started talking about secrets, and then after I spoke to him the other day and he promised to help you get better." She smiled crookedly. "Merlin may be a lot of things, but subtle isn’t one of them.”

 

“You spoke to him? You knew what he was planning?”

 

“I was worried about you. We both were.”

 

Arthur pushed back from the table and got up to pace across the room, arms folded across his chest. Gwen watched him, half her mind appreciating his renewed strength even as she wished she’d had the presence of mind to keep her mouth shut. It really couldn’t be good for him to get so angry so soon after being ill.

 

“Arthur,” she said, hoping to placate him. “I know you’re angry at Merlin for keeping this a secret, but…”

 

“But what, Guinevere?” Arthur rounded on her, his blue eyes flashing dangerously. “I should just sit back and accept that apparently my entire household thinks I’m incapable of making a proper decision on my own?”

 

“No, of course not — that’s not what — “

 

“I didn’t realise the pair of you thought so little of me,” Arthur continued, his voice rising. “Or that you thought you had a right to interfere without my permission— to use _magic_ on me in secret, when I’ve made it perfectly clear — “

 

“Arthur, please,” Gwen interrupted. “Merlin would never do anything to harm you, and neither would I. Magic doesn’t have to be used for evil — “

 

The king made a scoffing sound. “Good intentions don’t guarantee good actions. You know that as well as I do.”

 

“Merlin saved your _life_ ,” Gwen reminded him angrily. 

 

“And that is one of the only reasons I haven’t had him arrested and thrown in the dungeons,” Arthur said, his voice tight. “He’s been skulking around the castle for _years_ , using magic to do his chores and who knows what else.”

 

Gwen stared at him. “His chores?”

 

Arthur nodded. “When I caught him, he was using it to mop the floors, of all things,” he said, his mouth twisting. “I didn’t know it was possible, but he claims he’s had magic all his life, and I have no reason to doubt it. Which means he’s been keeping this secret since before we even met.”

 

That stung, as Arthur no doubt intended it to. Gwen thought back over the past years of her acquaintance with Merlin, all the odd things that she had put down to mere coincidence, or simply Merlin being Merlin. A little bit of healing magic was one thing, but a sorcerer? No wonder Arthur had been so upset when he found out. 

 

“I didn’t realise,” she said quietly. “I just thought he was helping Gaius with his potions, healing people, little things like that.”

 

“And you didn’t bother to mention it to me?”

 

Gwen shrugged. “I didn’t think it was a big deal. People go to hedge-witches and apothecaries for that sort of thing all the time.” She bit her lower lip. “Women — women go to see them sometimes, too, for…certain problems. It’s not much talked about, especially since the Purge, but it still happens.”

 

Arthur pursed his mouth with disapproval, but she could see he was considering her words carefully, weighing up what he knew of the desperation of peasant life against a natural desire to uphold his father’s laws. She waited, wondering if now would be a good time to confess her own secret, now that they were actually discussing the subject. Surely, if he knew that the use of magic could have such positive outcomes, he would eventually forgive Merlin for keeping his a secret for so long? 

 

“Arthur,” she began, tentatively. But the king interrupted her.

 

“There’s a difference between using magic to help someone when they ask for it, and doing it in secret, without their consent,” he said, his mouth settling into a stubborn line. “Even if he was just trying to help, Merlin crossed a line. There's no coming back from something like that."

 

"Not even for one of your best friends?"

 

Arthur shook his head. "The more powerful someone is, the more important it is for there to be rules, boundaries, keeping them from imposing their will on others, even in situations where their intentions are good. Power, any kind of power, that goes unchecked inevitably breeds corruption. It doesn’t matter if it’s political power or magical — the same principle applies to sorcerers as to kings.” He looked at her. “You understand that, don’t you?”

 

Gwen thought of the little charm still hanging beneath their bed, the strange words that had made the child quicken in her belly. “Of course,” she said, her heart sinking. “I understand completely.”


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

 

S E V E N

 

 

 

 

The following evening found Merlin out in the woods, alone, pacing through the heavy snow-drifts as he waited for Kilgharrah to answer his call. It was late, and he was tired, but he needed to go through with this before he lost his nerve and chickened out altogether.

 

When Gaius had returned from Arthur’s chambers the night before, Merlin had been waiting up for him, unable to get Arthur’s horrified face out of his mind. Arthur was one of the bravest warriors Merlin knew, and yet in that instant he had recoiled from Merlin as if he were a rabid dog that could turn against him at any moment. Merlin had known him long enough to read into the violence of that reaction what few others would have suspected: Arthur had been afraid. Of him. The idea made him feel sick.

 

“You violated his trust, Merlin,” Gaius had told him, sitting down heavily on the bench across from him and watching as Merlin alternately fretted and seethed beside the fire. “Not to mention upset his plans to catch the assassin, and potentially put yourself in danger to boot. For anyone who has been paying attention, such an abrupt acceleration of his recovery can only point to one thing.”

 

“Magic.”

 

Gaius nodded. “Magic,” he said. His face was grey from having been disturbed from his sleep, the wrinkles in his skin all the more prominent. He looked old, and very tired. “What were you thinking?”

 

Merlin could only shrug, staring at his hands. “I should have listened to you,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s not me you need to apologise to,” Gaius replied, shaking his head. “Although I doubt Arthur is very much in the mood for apologies at the moment. He was quite upset, when I spoke to him. And I believe he has a right to be.”

 

Merlin lifted his head. “You think I did the wrong thing?”

 

“For the right reasons.” Gaius looked at him sympathetically, reaching over to pat one of Merlin’s hands, but Merlin pulled away and he sighed. “I know you were only trying to help, Merlin. And it does you credit that you were willing to risk your personal safety to do so. But you must understand, magic doesn’t need to be malicious to have negative consequences. Sometimes it need only be poorly thought through.”

 

He hadn’t explained precisely what he meant, and Merlin had not asked him to elaborate. He hadn’t needed to. Arthur no longer trusted him; that much he had already known. In acting so precipitantly, he had intended to make things better — perhaps somewhere deep down, he had _hoped_ that Arthur would discover him, and that in curing his illness Merlin would regain at least some of the king’s good will. But he had reckoned without Arthur’s bull-headedness, and his ingrained distrust of all things magical, and now he had broken whatever remained of Arthur’s faith in him quite probably beyond all hope of repair. It was so stupid he could have screamed. Surely Arthur would see he had only been trying to save his life? Just because he’d used magic to do it didn’t make it _wrong_. He hadn’t hurt anyone. He wasn’t _dangerous_.

 

After Gaius had gone to bed, Merlin had remained awake, staring into the slowly dying flames. No matter how he tried to approach the problem, it seemed, there could only be one possible answer. Arthur would never forgive him as long as he had magic. No matter how good his intentions, in Arthur’s world no end could possibly justify the use of so corrupt a means. Therefore, if Merlin wanted Arthur to trust him again, he would have to remove that part of him which so offended the king: his magic. 

 

He spent what remained of the small hours poring over the book of magic he’d found in the ruins of Camelot’s library, studying the faded writing until the fire was little more than embers. There wasn’t a lot that was particularly helpful, although he did find one or two new scrying spells that he had almost earmarked to try for Lance until he remembered that if his plan worked, he would no longer be able to use them. It wasn’t until he’d reached the end of the volume that he’d found what he was looking for — a hastily-added post-scriptum in a vaguely familiar hand, entitled simply: _On Binding_. It wasn’t much to go on — it seemed to assume that one already knew the spell under discussion, and sought only to verify its effects — but it was enough to let Merlin know that it _could_ be done, if he could only figure out how. He couldn’t ask Gaius. The old physician would not approve, that much was certain, but fortunately Gaius was not the only one with a knowledge of spells and potions that he could turn to. And Kilgharrah could not disobey a Dragonlord, even if he wanted to.

 

 

 

Midnight came and went, and the Great Dragon still hadn’t arrived. Shivering, Merlin rubbed his hands together briskly for warmth, and turned to trudge back across the clearing for the umpteenth time, hoping the movement would chase away the bitter chill. He was wearing the gloves Arthur had given him, more out of a desire for comfort than anything else, but even so his fingers were numb and he couldn’t seem to get warm. He stamped his feet, and had just begun giving serious thought to returning to the infirmary to stoke up the fire, when he heard the unmistakeable sound of wingbeats in the distance, and at long last Kilgharrah’s sinuous form glided through the clouds to alight on the hilltop in front of him.

 

“You took your time,” Merlin remarked, sagging with exhaustion and relief. “What if it had been an emergency?”

 

“I do not exist solely at your beck and call, young warlock,” Kilgharrah said, with immense dignity. Xie folded her wings close to xir body, a fussy motion that recalled the settling of indignant hens. “You must be patient. I have promised always to answer you, not that I will always be on time.”

 

At any other time, Merlin might have pursued the issue — he knew an evasive answer when he heard one, after so many years of having to give them himself — but tonight he had other, more important matters on his mind. 

 

“I screwed up,” he said bluntly, looking up into Kilgharrah's familiar face. “I screwed up really badly, and I need you to help me fix it.”

 

The Great Dragon sighed, xir warm breath lifting Merlin’s hair as it gusted over him.

 

“What is it this time, young Merlin?” Xie asked drolly, arching xir neck so that their eyes were roughly on a level. “More trouble with the Once and Future King?”

 

“I read in a book that there is a spell to get rid of magic,” Merlin blurted. The dragon drew back a little, xir wings flaring in surprise. “I need you to tell me what it is.”

 

“I will do no such thing,” Kilgharrah retorted, glaring at Merlin with xir large, golden eyes. The rumbling sound in xir chest sounded a lot like anger this time. “You can’t simply remove that which makes you who you are.”

 

“Then I can’t fulfil my destiny, either,” Merlin shot back, clenching his fists. “Because Arthur will never trust me as long as I have magic. And if Arthur doesn’t trust me, there’s no way he’ll allow magic back into Camelot.”

 

“He seems to be doing quite well on that front, regardless of whether he trusts you or not,” Kilgharrah commented drily, and Merlin felt his guts clench at the truth of that statement. “I hardly think such drastic measures are necessary.”

 

“Then why do I need my magic in the first place?”

 

“Without magic, you would have no destiny.”

 

Merlin shrugged. “Then so be it,” he said. “I never really wanted a destiny anyway.”

 

“ _Merlin_.” Incensed, the dragon shot a jet of fire over Merlin’s head, close enough that it almost singed his eyebrows. He flinched and ducked away, his heartbeat fluttering in his chest, palms pressed into the damp grass as he stumbled to his knees before righting himself. “Would you betray your own kind?”

 

“It’s the only way Arthur will ever stop looking at me like I'm some kind of threat!” Merlin yelled up at xir, his fists balled up tightly at his sides. He thought he might be crying, because Kilgharrah’s angry face was blurring above him, and he could feel his throat going tight the way it always did when he was upset. He swiped angrily at his face, wishing he could get the image of Arthur’s frightened expression out of his head. “Tell me what to do! There has to be a way.”

 

Kilgharrah exhaled, long and loud, sending steam billowing into Merlin’s face.

 

“I cannot tell you how to remove your magic, for no spell exists that could do such a thing,” xie said. “Don’t you think Uther would have made use of it before now, if there were? Or that frightened mothers would not save their children from him, if that were possible? However…”

 

“Yes?” Merlin immediately pounced on the uncertainty in Kilgharrah’s voice. “However, what?”

 

“There may be a way to achieve the same effect,” the dragon told him reluctantly, xir gaze sliding away from Merlin’s to glare towards the distant citadel that was Camelot. “To bind your magic so that you have no access to it.”

 

“Tell me,” Merlin commanded. He put enough of his magic into it that it _was_ a command, ringing out into the night with steely authority. Kilgharrah’s eyes narrowed with clear irritation, and xie drew out the silence as long as xie could before snorting and giving in.

 

“As you already know, at the height of the Great Purge King Uther was determined to do everything he could to wipe out magic in Camelot. To that end, he would capture anyone suspected of using magic and execute them. However, there were — at least in the early days — a number of extremely skilled sorcerers who could simply use their powers to escape from the chains that bound them.”

 

“But — I thought sorcerers were unable to do magic when bound by cold iron?” Merlin interrupted, curious. “Isn’t that what everyone says?”

 

Kilgharrah made a sound of disdain. “That only works on low-level hedge witches and sprites,” xie said. “The more powerful the wizard, the more powerful the bindings needed to be. Mere cold iron would never suffice for the likes of Nimueh.”

 

“What did Uther use, then?”

 

“It was an old spell, designed to cut off all access to the magical realm so that a person would be unable to utilise their powers. A binding, if you will. It would be as if their magic was entirely removed from their bodies, allowing Uther and his soldiers to kill them quickly and without fuss.”

 

For a moment, Merlin was silent, imagining what that must have been like for the poor souls Uther had captured — stripped of every defence, assuming they even had magic to begin with, forced to walk to their deaths bound by their own kind. He shivered.

 

“How did he do it?” he asked, staring rather fixedly at Kilgharrah's feet instead of xir face. The dragon harrumphed loudly.

 

“By forcing one of the captured sorcerers to work the spell, of course,” xie said, deliberately misinterpreting the question. “Uther kidnapped the man’s family and held them to ransom until the work was done. Then he bound the man in his own shackles and had him put to death, so that he alone would know the secret of their origins.”

 

Merlin swallowed. That was worse than he'd been expecting.

 

“You know what I’m asking,” he said, his voice sounding steadier than he really felt. “What was the spell?”

 

Kilgharrah fixed him with one golden eye.

 

“Tell me, young warlock,” xie said. “If this is truly what it takes to get King Arthur to trust you again, is he really the sort of man you would wish to serve?”

 

It was a good question. Merlin glanced out across the silvery snow, back towards the citadel, and wrapped his arms around himself in an unconscious gesture of self-protection. He thought about Arthur as he had been when Merlin first met him, thoughtless and prone to bullying, yet with an innate spark of nobility that Merlin had instinctively wanted to shelter and nourish. He thought of Arthur as he had looked last night, how angry he had been and how close he had come to lashing out. And yet, he had restrained himself. The fact that Merlin was still alive in spite of everything he had done was a testament of some kind, surely. Arthur was not his father.

 

“It’s complicated,” he said finally. He looked at Kilgharrah, the large reptilian eyes watching him patiently in the dark. “He’s not a bad person.”

 

“Perhaps not. But if he forces you to pursue such a drastic course of action, how is he any better than Uther was himself?”

 

“He’s not forcing me,” Merlin said stubbornly. “This is my choice. I want him to know that he can trust me.”

 

Kilgharrah sighed, a long, slow sound that was full of centuries worth of sorrow.

 

“Very well,” xie said. “But it is a complicated spell. It will require more than just your own participation: the one who is to do the binding must recite the words as well. Only they can remove the bonds, once they have been administered.”

 

Arthur doing magic? The thought gave Merlin pause; he wasn’t sure he could ever imagine that happening, somehow, even if it _would_ be to the kingdom’s benefit in the long run. Still, he nodded his head. He would find some way to convince Arthur that this was necessary. He didn't have any other choice. Kilgharrah sighed again, but this time the dragon's breath contained the knowledge Merlin sought.

 

Dragon magic was in many ways more elemental than Merlin’s own magic. While his powers were tied to the earth and the natural world, the spell that Kilgharrah breathed into his mind drew on forces that were yet more ancient, the spirits and substances that bound the universe together. Merlin closed his eyes, absorbing the words and all their implications. The strength of them pulsed in his blood, wild and dangerous, the taste of copper and ash on his tongue. 

 

When he opened his eyes again, it was to find that at some point he had sunk to his knees on the ground, and Kilgharrah was watching him.

 

“There are some things even you ought not to interfere with,” the dragon said soberly. “Your magic is a gift. I would not be so eager to get rid of it if I were you. Without it, you will not be able to protect Arthur, or help him achieve what he was meant for.”

 

“You don’t know that.” Merlin got to his feet. “Without magic, I can still take care of him. I’ll just have to find another way to do it.”

 

“Perhaps. But you will not bring about the union of all Albion without your gifts.”

 

“I don’t _care_ about uniting Albion,” Merlin said defiantly, but he was wise enough not to continue. It wasn't exactly true, in any case - it was just that he cared about Arthur more. He looked up, meeting the dragon’s fiery gaze. “Thank you, for your help. I know you didn’t want to tell me.”

 

“If you will not heed my warnings, then I must help you in whatever way I can,” Kilgharrah said, not sounding very enthusiastic about it. “But, Merlin…”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Be careful. Even I cannot see where this path of yours may lead.”

 

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

 

Arthur's anger at Merlin's idiocy had not abated when he woke a few days later to find his manservant quietly tidying his chambers, his still-warm breakfast steaming slightly on the table at the foot of his bed. He was almost disappointed that the other man was behaving so properly — now that he once more had the opportunity, he felt the urge to yell at Merlin more strongly than ever before. Not that the lack of any excuse had ever stopped him in the past.

 

"What are you doing in here?" he demanded, sitting up. Merlin jumped, and turned, obviously not expecting to be addressed.

 

"Cleaning, sire," he said, his face carefully blank. "I'm sorry if I woke you."

 

"You didn't wake me," Arthur grunted, glaring. Merlin had his hands behind his back, in a manner that was far too innocent and guileless for Arthur's peace of mind. "What are you holding behind your back?"

 

"Nothing, Your Majesty." 

 

"Show me."

 

With obvious reluctance, Merlin brought his hands around to the front of his body. In them, he was holding a scrubbing brush. Arthur stared at it, then up at Merlin's face. 

 

"I thought I told you to get out," he said finally.

 

"You were angry," Merlin said. "I wasn't sure you meant it."

 

Arthur let the silence drag on for another minute; two. Merlin's gaze was fixed resolutely on the king’s left ear, and it made him feel oddly vulnerable, wearing only his night shirt and breeches. Finally, he huffed a sigh and threw up his hands.

 

"Well, you're here now, so I suppose you should just get on with it," he said. He threw back the covers and stood up, the stone floor icy against his feet. "I can dress myself," he added, as Merlin made an aborted movement in his direction. "Just...continue with what you were doing."

 

Merlin nodded, silent, and went back to scrubbing the flagstones by the fireplace, the long curve of his back oddly stiff as he turned it on Arthur. Arthur continued staring at him for a moment. Something was off — Merlin had been trying to get his attention for weeks before the ill-advised stunt with the healing magic; it seemed uncharacteristic for him to have given up now, when Arthur was apparently in the mood for conversation. The king stepped behind the screen and began to dress himself, still thinking over this sudden shift in behaviour. Merlin seemed to be going out of his way to be the perfect servant, going about his duties as unobtrusively as someone with ears that size and a penchant for tripping over random objects could. The only obvious conclusion was that he was up to something. 

 

On any other day, the thought might have amused him — he would have pictured Merlin conniving to take a day off, for example, or to spend the night in the tavern. Today, however, knowing what he knew, the suspicion suddenly took on a more sinister edge.

 

"Why are you really here, Merlin?" he demanded, peering around the screen to watch as his manservant snapped to attention at the sound of his voice. There was a perverse pleasure in catching him off-guard. “What form of treason are you plotting today?”

 

He told himself it was meant to be a joke. After all, they had always teased one another before. But he knew that Merlin could hear the truth inside the jest, and so crossed angrily to where his boots were resting, clean and polished, beside the fire, so that he didn’t have to see the other man flinch.

 

“Just the opposite, actually,” Merlin said, after a moment of strained silence. “I — had a suggestion, sire. Or, really, a question. A proposal. I — “

 

“If you’re about to suggest I lift the ban on magic, not a chance,” Arthur put in swiftly, sitting down on his bed and yanking on his left boot. His heel got lodged halfway down and wouldn’t budge. Why was it always more difficult when he tried to do this by himself? “At least not until I come to some agreement with the Druids, which has nothing to do with you. And I still haven’t made up my mind whether I’m going to execute you yet.”

 

“No, no, nothing like that.” And suddenly Merlin was there, bending to help him slide the boot over his foot and lace it properly with quick, deft fingers. He kept his head down the entire time, focusing on the task, and Arthur glared first at the boot then at the back of Merlin’s neck, white and unguarded and far too close. “I, er, came across a reference to something in a book I was reading and I thought — well, I wondered — “

 

“For heaven’s sake, spit it out, Merlin, I don’t have all day!” Arthur snapped. The right boot had gone on just as easily as the left had in Merlin’s hands, and he decided that this clearly was another area in which Merlin must be employing his sorcerous gifts. Trust Merlin to turn even his clothes against him.

 

Merlin finished lacing the boot and sat back on his haunches, chancing a quick look up at Arthur through his lashes. The king determinedly ignored the too-solid _thump_ of his heart at his tentative expression.

 

“I found a kind of binding spell that your father used to use on criminals, to keep them from accessing their magic,” Merlin blurted out in a rush. “And I thought, if — if you really don’t trust — if you really want to be certain that I won’t ever use my magic on you again — “

 

“You want me to bind your powers?” Arthur stared at him. Uther had told him, once, that in the old days they used to deal with sorcerers like that, taking away their magic before they burned them at the stake, but there were so few left now with any real power that in truth he had forgotten such a thing was possible. “Why on earth would you suggest a thing like that?”

 

Merlin’s face, when it turned towards him, was set and determined. “It’s the only way, sire,” he said. “I — sometimes it’s — I can’t seem to help it, using my magic to save you. If you really want me to stop, then this is the only way to be sure.”

 

“If this is you trying to manipulate me…”

 

“It’s not,” Merlin said, his face crumpling, and for an instant Arthur almost felt guilty. “I know you have no reason to believe me, Arthur, but I swear, I would never do anything to hurt you. I just want the chance to prove it.”

 

Still, Arthur hesitated. He remembered his father’s delight in the idea, the vicious ingenuity of using magic to conquer magic. He suspected it was highly unpleasant for everyone involved, and much as he wanted, pettily, to punish Merlin for all those years of deceit and stupidity and keeping secrets, he had never actually considered _stripping him of his powers_. Hadn’t even dreamed that he could — it seemed a bit excessive.

 

On the other hand, now would be the ideal opportunity to test his own mettle — to see whether he truly was the king he had believed himself to be, capable of taking care of his people and himself without a sorcerer lurking in the background and be-spelling his enemies. He would know, for an absolute certainty, that his achievements were his own. The idea filled him with mingled anticipation and dread. What if he’d become reliant on Merlin without even knowing it? Already it seemed that even his closest and seemingly most devoted friends thought him helpless on his own or not worthy of their loyalty; what would happen if he no longer had Merlin’s support and protection? He had no idea how extensive the warlock’s interference had been, although he had some suspicion, when he thought back over the mysterious successes and strokes of luck over the past few years. Perhaps he was the only reason Camelot was still standing. Perhaps he was counting on Arthur to take this offer, and then he could stand back and watch the kingdom fall.

 

Yet he and Gaius had spoken at length the other night, and they had concluded that Merlin had essentially painted a target on his own back by curing him so hastily. Gaius had insisted that Merlin had only been trying to save Arthur’s life — that it was, in fact, his destiny to do so, whatever that meant — but he had agreed with Arthur that Merlin had acted rashly, and Merlin himself had just admitted that he found it hard to refrain from interfering even knowing his help would be unwelcome. Perhaps binding his powers would serve the double duty of protecting him from possible scrutiny while also preventing him from abusing his magic any further. In which case, didn’t Arthur owe it to them both to try?

 

Merlin was still looking at him. Arthur scrubbed a hand through his hair, wishing his father were still alive so that he would never have been put in this position in the first place. Then he thought about what Uther would do to Merlin instead, and reconsidered.

 

“All right,” he said finally, watching as the tension melted away from Merlin’s face. “What do I have to do?”

 

 

 

 

As it turned out, all Arthur really had to do was sit and watch while Merlin did most of the heavy lifting. “Well, you’re also going to need to say the spell out loud,” Merlin added, glancing up at Arthur as if he expected him to protest. “According to my source, it’s going to take both of us for the spell to work, at least if we want to do it properly.”

 

The idea of once more being up close and personal with Merlin’s magic made Arthur’s stomach flutter with something close to panic. For the most part, his experience with spell-casting had been limited to dodging out of the way while people with magic tried to kill him, his half-sister included, but given his response when Merlin had healed him the other night he wasn’t convinced that he liked this sort of non-lethal magic any better. He watched as Merlin set up a ring of stubby white candles on the table, moving his now-congealed breakfast out of the way. Using a piece of pale yellow chalk, his manservant began inscribing unintelligible symbols around the edge of the circle, apparently seeing no point in explaining to Arthur exactly what it was he was doing.

 

It was odd to see Merlin so at ease with something so dangerous — he was so used to thinking of him as a clumsy non-combatant that it was like looking at an entirely different person. He lit the candles with a single wave of his hand, his eyes glowing golden as the power sparked inside them, illuminating his face with an ethereal light. It must have been difficult for him, Arthur reflected, having to conceal his abilities for so long, especially at the beginning, knowing that his own instincts might betray him and that he could be killed for even the smallest mistake. He thought with a surge of irrational anger how casually Merlin had risked his own life, doing magical chores with the door wide open. Did the idiot have some kind of a death wish? And yet, in theory he had been practicing magic under Arthur’s nose for years, so perhaps he was right to be complacent. Perhaps Arthur had simply been too blind to see what was standing right in front of him.

 

“Did you _want_ to tell me?” he asked, not realising until he said it that the question had been nagging at him for quite some time. “Did it ever occur to you at any point to let me know you were a sorcerer, or were you planning on taking it to the grave?”

 

Merlin turned those luminescent eyes on him, their colour fading slowly back to the familiar blue.

 

“I wanted to tell you more than anything,” he said quietly. “But I didn’t know how.”

 

He finished setting up, and sat down across from Arthur, gesturing at the king to do the same. After a moment’s pause, Arthur pulled up a chair and sat. Merlin stretched out both hands across the table.

 

“We need to form a circle,” he said. “Then I’ll recite the spell, and you say each line after me. All right?”

 

“Fine,” Arthur said. And it was fine. Why wouldn’t it be? Arthur looked at Merlin’s hands, laid out palm-upwards on the dark wood. There was something faintly silly about it, like little kids playing at make-believe, but that wasn’t the reason for Arthur’s hesitation. He could still feel the siren song of Merlin’s magic humming in his blood; even now, some part of him that was beyond his conscious control was longing for another taste, like a drunkard begging ale after a feast. He wasn’t sure he had the strength to endure it a second time.

 

“Arthur?” Merlin was looking at him, picking at the skin of his lower lip with his teeth — a habit of his when he got nervous. “I won’t hurt you.”

 

Right. He was being ridiculous. With an inward sigh, and a mental prayer to whatever gods were listening that he wasn’t about to make a terrible mistake, Arthur reached out resolutely and took Merlin’s hands in his. The palms were cool and dry, roughened by hard work, and Merlin gripped him lightly, only holding on tightly enough to maintain the connection. He began to speak, barely stumbling over the strange syllables, leaving a pause after each phrase so that Arthur could recite it back to him in his turn.

 

 

 

In the end, the spell itself was something of an anticlimax. There was no hot rush of magic, as Arthur had guiltily half-hoped there would be; instead, when he finished speaking the final line of the incantation there was a brief flash of light, and in the centre of the circle where there had formerly been empty space lay a single set of wrought-iron shackles, indistinguishable from any other set in the castle dungeons except for the exquisite fineness of the metal and the strange runes that had been carved around the polished surface. 

 

They seemed innocuous enough, more like women’s jewellery than the lethal weapon in the war against sorcery his father had described, but something about them made the hair on the back of Arthur’s neck stand up. Merlin, however, looked blithely unconcerned, rolling up his sleeves and holding out his wrists for Arthur to fasten them around.

 

“Are you sure about this?” Arthur blurted, suddenly afraid. “You have no idea what’s going to happen when you put those things on.”

 

Not answering, Merlin turned one of his outstretched hands towards the ceiling and conjured a brilliant flame in the centre of his palm with a single flick of his wrist. Arthur flinched back in surprise before he could stop himself, and when the flame died away all he could see was Merlin’s face, drawn but resolute. “I’m sure,” he said.

 

All of Arthur’s instincts were telling him that this was wrong, that this was something they should not be doing, not with everything so at odds between them. But on the other hand, his mind — logic — all of his experience said that magic was not to be trusted, that it had taken all those he loved from him. That it needed to be restrained and punished.

 

That he could never truly rule with magic at his side, however benign its bearer might seem.

 

He picked up the first binding and clasped it around Merlin’s thin wrist, where it clicked effortlessly into place, tightening so that it fitted seamlessly against Merlin’s skin. Merlin gave a small gasp, and Arthur glanced at him sharply, but his eyes were on the metal, his face pale.

 

“Merlin?”

 

Merlin shook his head. “Go on. Do it.”

 

When the clasp of the second bracelet clicked to around Merlin’s other wrist, his whole body jerked back and he made a sound Arthur had never heard come from another person’s throat, knocking over his chair as he stumbled to his feet. Catching sight of his face, Arthur felt an unexpected tug of emotion behind his breastbone, as if he were a landed fish and some fisherman had just jerked a line leading straight to his heart. Merlin looked wretched, his cheeks now white as milk and his lips slightly parted, a faint sheen of sweat covering his skin. His earlier distrust momentarily forgotten, Arthur pushed back his own chair and stepped in close to brace Merlin with his body, reaching to remove the bindings only to have Merlin jerk away from his touch, staggering slightly and shaking his head again.

 

“No,” he said, his voice strained. “I can do this. I want to do this.”

 

“Merlin — “

 

But Merlin’s face was set, and Arthur didn’t have the will to refuse him under the circumstances. He nodded and dropped his hand, stepping away from his manservant to pinch out the flickering candles between thumb and forefinger. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t understand what Merlin could possibly stand to gain from removing his magic, especially when it looked as if it cost him dearly. Unless he truly did intend to show Arthur he could be trusted. In which case, did he want Arthur to trust him because he cared, or merely because it was necessary to some hidden plan the king was not privy to? And how could he ever really trust Merlin if he couldn’t know for sure?

 

As he watched the former sorcerer try tentatively to conjure even the smallest spark from his now magic-less fingers, Arthur couldn’t shake the sense of deep foreboding which came over him at the sight. Rather than de-fanging a monster, he felt as if he had just shot another unicorn, and the unexpected grief the thought invoked made it hard to stand still.

 

“Come on,” he snapped, turning away from Merlin and heading for the door. “It’s almost time to gather the council, and I haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

 

“As you wish, my lord,” Merlin said, and it wasn’t until Arthur was halfway down the stairs in the direction of the kitchens that he realised there hadn’t been a single hint of irony in Merlin’s voice.

 

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

 

Gwen didn’t see Merlin for several days after learning his secret, although she guessed he had returned to work since Arthur’s chambers were growing gradually less chaotic in spite of her husband’s habitual messiness. The next time she caught sight of him, Merlin was trudging down one of the castle corridors carrying two hefty buckets of brackish water, his cheeks flushed with the exertion but otherwise looking pale and unexpectedly peaky. She stopped in her progress towards the solar, concern making her pause for a moment before deciding that it was time somebody intervened.

 

“Merlin,” she called, pitching her voice so that it would carry along the passageway. “Would you come here a moment?”

 

Merlin lifted his head, and after a second’s hesitation turned and walked back down the icy flagstones towards her, raising his eyebrows in a question. “Is there something you wanted, my lady?”

 

“Here, why don’t you take a break for a moment?” she said, taking one of the buckets from him. He held onto it for a moment, looking as if he wanted to protest, but Gwen just tugged insistently until he let go and she could lower it to the ground. His hands, she saw, were red and nearly raw. “You look exhausted, Merlin — has Arthur been running you ragged again?”

 

“Something like that,” he said, smiling at her gratefully. He brushed a sheen of sweat from his forehead. “You’d think I would be used to it, after all this time.”

 

Gwen glanced around the deserted passageway, then leaned in closer to him. “Why don’t you just — you know,” she waved her free hand. “Use your magic? Wouldn’t that make things easier?”

 

Merlin nearly dropped the bucket he was still holding, slopping dirty water all over his trousers. “My — what?”

 

“Arthur told me,” Gwen assured him, uncertain why he looked so startled. Surely he didn’t think she would be upset? “Although I have to admit, I already had my suspicions about what you and Gaius get up to in that infirmary of yours. Non-magical medicine can only go so far, and Arthur has been pulled back from the brink so many times…” She let her voice trail off significantly, and when he still showed no signs of relaxing, put a gentle hand on his arm. “I wanted to thank you, actually. For helping him. Goodness knows he’ll never admit it, but he does rely on you, you know.”

 

To her surprise, Merlin flinched at that, pulling away from her touch and using his free hand to tug down his sleeves in an uncharacteristically diffident gesture. 

 

“That’s my job,” he said, with an unconvincing smile. “Helping Arthur. Listen, Gwen, I’m really sorry but I was supposed to have finished scrubbing these floors ages ago — “

 

“Of course,” Gwen said. She took a step back to let him past, watching with a frown as he grabbed the second bucket by the handle and hefted it into the air with an effort. He really did look tired, straining to carry buckets which she knew for a fact used to be child’s play to him. Perhaps he was getting sick — or, more likely, Arthur had decided that an overload of chores was the best way to punish him for magically saving his life. It was far cry from banishment or execution, but that didn’t make it fair. “Don’t let me keep you. Perhaps we can have a good chat together later, when you’re finished? There was something I wanted to ask your advice about, now that I think of it. And I want to learn more about - you know. What you can do.”

 

Merlin nodded. “Of course. I mean, I’m happy to help, you know that.”

 

“Of course,” Gwen echoed, but he was already shuffling back the way he had come.

 

 

 

 

The encounter with Merlin unsettled Gwen, and instead of resuming her previous path to the solar she turned south in the direction of the training grounds, instinct sending her in search of someone to whom she knew she could safely convey her concerns. As usual, Lancelot was out in the courtyard, running through a series of fencing drills with his customary concentration. Gwen stood at the edge of the training ground, not wanting to interrupt, admiring the ease with which he moved in spite of the heavy snow. She tried not to think about what would happen when the snow was gone, and the road was open for him to leave the citadel for good, but instead indulged in several minutes of simple observation, waiting for him to notice her instead of alerting him to her presence as she ought to have done. It took some time before he paused long enough to catch sight of her.

 

“My lady?” he inquired, lowering his sword immediately to bow his head in her direction. His gaze swept briefly over her dress and shawl. “It’s cold out here,” he said, less formally. “Are you sure you should be about without your coat?”

 

“I was on my way to the solar,” Gwen told him. “But I ran into Merlin and got distracted. Walk with me?”

 

She could see the reluctance in his expression, but he nodded anyway, sliding his sword back into its scabbard and stepping forward gallantly to offer her his arm. She took it, and allowed him to redirect her path back towards the warmth of the inner castle. 

 

“Can I ask you a question?” she said, after taking a moment to sort through what she needed to say. “I promise it has nothing to do with — I mean, it’s about Merlin.”

 

“Merlin?” Lance’s eyebrows rose. “Of course. What about him?”

 

Gwen worried her lower lip, flicking a brief glance back in the direction where she had seen Merlin disappear. “I suppose you’ve noticed that he and Arthur have had, well, something of a falling out, lately,” she said finally. "More so than usual, I mean."

 

“I did notice something of the sort,” Lance admitted. “Why?”

 

“Did Merlin tell you what it was about?”

 

The knight stopped walking and turned to look at her, studying her face. Gwen let him, waiting until she saw something like resignation come over his expression. Merlin had told him, then. Gwen suppressed a little flash of hurt at the realisation that she had apparently been the last to know, and squeezed his arm. 

 

“I’m worried for him, Lancelot,” she said. “Arthur can be quite implacable when he’s upset, and, well. When I ran into Merlin earlier he looked like he was about to keel over, and I get the impression Arthur is deliberately making things difficult for him. I just thought...Merlin is your friend too, and perhaps Arthur might listen if you spoke to him about it. Try to get him to see reason. I’ve tried, but I don’t seem to be able to get through to him.”

 

It was not something which was easy for her to admit to, especially not to Lance, from whom pride demanded that she should conceal any sign of marital discord or unhappiness as best she could. Not to mention the fact that Lancelot was nothing if not loyal to the king, and she didn’t want him to feel as if he had to choose between them. But she also knew that Merlin was his friend, and if Lance could help him without sacrificing his principles, he would. 

 

To her relief, the knight nodded slowly, apparently not seeing anything untoward in the request.

 

“I’ll do my best,” he said. “If you think it would help. But I thought Arthur was starting to come around as far as magic is concerned — isn’t that what this business with the Druids is all about? Or are you worried Arthur’s attitude to Merlin is going to upset the negotiations with them as well?” 

 

Gwen wrinkled her nose. “You know Arthur,” she said. “He’s more than willing to put aside his feelings for the sake of Camelot, even if he isn’t so lenient in his personal life. But…” She hesitated. “You’re right, it’s not just Merlin I’m concerned about.”

 

This time, Lance’s gaze on her was sharp and penetrating, almost startled. “You don’t — _you_ have magic?”

 

“Not exactly,” Gwen said delicately. “But the conception…it was difficult. I felt…pressured, to find a way to make things right. Do you understand?”

 

It was the first time she had spoken of it out loud to someone before, even obliquely, and hearing the words sent a frisson of trepidation down her spine. For a moment, Lance looked blank, as if he couldn’t possibly comprehend what she was saying. Then understanding dawned, and with it came something she had not expected: fear.

 

“You didn’t,” Lance said, his voice hushed. He looked at her belly with undisguised alarm, as if he were expecting the child inside her to burst forth with teeth and claw at the ready. “Gwen — that’s — don’t you realise how dangerous that is?”

 

Gwen frowned. “What do you mean?” she asked, one hand going instinctively to shield her stomach. “Arthur would never hurt me, and the woman assured me that it was perfectly safe.”

 

A trio of serving-girls was approaching them from the direction of the great hall. Lance dropped her arm and took a step back for them to pass, waiting until they had turned the corner before he turned to her again, his expression troubled.

 

“You need to talk to Merlin,” he said, voice urgent. “He’s the one who told me about this, so he can probably explain it better than I can. But — Gwen, how much do you know about what happened to Arthur’s mother?”

 

The abrupt change in subject made Gwen blink. “I know that Uther blames magic for her death,” she said slowly. “Because they couldn’t save her when she died in childbirth. But surely you’re not suggesting that she — “

 

“According to Merlin, magic requires a balance,” Lance said. He was speaking hurriedly, in low tones, obviously afraid of being interrupted. She had to concentrate her attention to understand him. “When they found that Queen Ygraine could not conceive, Uther went to one of the High Priestesses to help her get with child. He either didn’t realise or didn’t care that in order to create life, a life must be taken.”

 

“A life for a life,” Gwen whispered, feeling the blood drain from her face. “And so Ygraine…?”

 

“She died,” Lancelot confirmed grimly. “So that Arthur could live.”


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

 

E I G H T

 

 

 

The moment the shackles had closed over his wrists, Merlin had _felt_ his magic closing off from him. It was a strange sensation, a bit like being pinched in the middle, as if some part of himself was being separated away from the rest of him and shut away in a box or behind a locked door. He could feel that it was there, in the hazy, distant way one might recall the sensation of a severed limb, but he couldn’t access it: that was the first thing he tried. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but it made him feel woozy, and he trailed after the king dutifully not so much because he wanted to be on his best behaviour but because he rather found he lacked the strength to do anything else. Arthur didn't seem to notice, although Merlin had caught him glancing back at him once or twice, looking at the bindings on his wrists with something akin to loathing. He tugged his sleeves down to hide them, wishing he had thought to spell them to be invisible while he’d been about it. They were relatively unobtrusive, all things considered, but he didn’t want to attract undue attention.

 

The next morning, Arthur ate while Merlin puttered around and made a desultory attempt at completing his usual chores. Tidying away the mess wasn’t a problem; although it _was_ messy, he found organising Arthur’s shirts and making his bed to be relatively unchallenging tasks which seldom required the use of magic (unless he was in a rush, which he sometimes was). He still had to clean out the fireplace, however, and mop the floors, and it wasn’t until he was standing right in front of the hearth that he realised he had no idea how to go about doing so without using magic. Generally speaking, if Arthur was in the vicinity while he was working he would either put off the more difficult tasks for later or make a show of fussing over them so that he looked like he was doing something while actually waiting for Arthur to leave, at which point he would just use magic to get them done in a flash. Now, however, he would have to learn to do things by hand.

 

“Something wrong?”

 

Merlin jumped. While he had been contemplating the fireplace in dismay, Arthur had come up behind him, still chewing on a cold chicken leg from his breakfast platter. 

 

“No,” Merlin said hastily. “Just — thinking. About fireplaces.”

 

Arthur stared at him, his expression half-way between the familiar _you are such an idiot_ expression he usually wore when talking to Merlin, and a less familiar, more calculating look that Merlin thought meant, _I no longer know whether to suspect a lie_. It made his heart twinge painfully in his chest, and he looked away abruptly.

 

“About fireplaces,” Arthur repeated. “What a fascinating subject. No doubt your cogitations have to do with the fact that you were about to clean mine and set out the wood ready for this evening?”

 

“Er,” Merlin said. “About that, sire…”

 

“Don’t tell me. You don’t have a clue what you’re doing.”

 

“Well…”

 

“Did you use magic for _everything_ , or just most things?” Arthur demanded, sounding outraged. “How did you never get caught before this?”

 

“Just lucky, I guess.” Merlin said, grinning in spite of himself. For a moment, Arthur sounded so… _normal_ , he could almost forget that everything he’d been hoping for was crumbling around his ears. Almost. 

 

The king fixed him with a steely-eyed glare. “Either you have the luck of the devil, or you’ve been messing with peoples’ heads so that they won’t notice as you _blatantly do magic right in front of them_. I always knew you were reckless, but that would be a new low even for you.”

 

There was no softness in Arthur’s expression to bely the harshness of his tone, and Merlin ducked his head, his smile dying.

 

“I’ll have one of the other servants teach me how, my lord,” he said, meek. “I’ll get it done by the end of the day.”

 

Arthur merely looked at him with that inscrutable expression. “See that you do,” was all he said.

 

 

 

 

The fireplace was not the only thing Merlin found himself unexpectedly daunted by. As the week wore on, he was forced to relearn countless little chores he had previously taken for granted; scrubbing the floors, washing the sheets, lugging the bathwater. The first time he’d tried to make up Arthur’s bath without magic, the water had been chilly and unwelcoming by the time the king had been ready for it, and he’d ordered Merlin to tip it out and fill it up again until his shoulders ached and his back was damp with sweat. To make matters worse, Arthur had been naked save for his robe, standing with arms folded to survey Merlin’s progress, his eyes narrowed. Merlin wasn’t sure what hurt worse in the end: the fetching and carrying, or having to return to that room to find Arthur waiting for him like that, so achingly close and yet never so far away.

 

Scrubbing the floors had also become an exercise in torture. He’d run into Gwen at one point, in the middle of moving two increasingly heavy water buckets from one floor to the next, only to nearly have a heart attack when she had asked him perfectly casually why he didn’t just use his magic. The irony of the fact that Arthur had chosen _now_ to reveal everything to his wife did not escape him. Perhaps he regarded the matter as settled, or perhaps it was some oblique form of cruelty that Merlin didn’t quite understand, but either way he had been glad to get away from her, and had made a point of drawing out the scrubbing in spite of how much it hurt his hands, in an effort to avoid being cornered for another chat. Lance had tried to speak to him too, not long afterwards, but Merlin had mumbled some excuse about having chores to do and hurried off. He really didn’t want to talk about magic right now. At least, not with either of them, well-meaning as they were.

 

The one person Merlin _did_ want to discuss his magic with was mostly silent in his presence, having reverted back to his sullen and mistrustful self after the bracelets had gone on. Merlin had hoped that seeing his struggles to survive daily life without his magic would amuse Arthur, or at least make him see how much Merlin was trying, but the king showed no signs of relenting, save for the occasional choice insult which always seemed to cut Merlin to the quick, no matter how much he braced himself for them.

 

When the negotiations with the Druids stalled a few days later, Arthur’s mood dipped further, becoming pensive and uptight. He snapped at Merlin for the smallest things, when he wasn’t sitting at his desk and brooding over his parchments, but when Merlin tried — albeit in the most roundabout of ways — to find out what it was that was going on, Arthur clammed up and would tell him nothing about it. The most Merlin could surmise was that it had to do with magic, but he could have guessed that anyway, and it was galling to think that Arthur would keep something from him in this way when it concerned him so personally. 

 

Nevertheless, Merlin forced himself not to pry. If he was going to show Arthur that he was trustworthy, he couldn’t go out of his way to procure information that the king didn’t see fit to give him of his own volition. At best, it was nosy and above his station; at worst, it bordered on treason, and Merlin told himself grimly that if Arthur wanted or needed his help, he would give it, and not before. It was such a reversal of what they had been to each other — so different from the friendship he’d thought they had — that it took actual conscious effort not to comment on Arthur’s distraction, or attempt to cheer him up when his mood seemed low. Merlin hardly considered himself a busybody, but he had been responsible for Arthur’s welfare for so long now — whether the king knew about it or not — that to be relegated to the sidelines was almost physically painful.

 

There was some glimmer of hope on the horizon, however, and that was that every so often he would catch Arthur watching him — not as if he were trying to determine his motives, but with an expression on his face that was hard to decipher, a complicated mix of anger, self-recrimination and a deep sort of sadness that Merlin could not place. The first time he caught Arthur regarding him that way, it had startled him so much he’d dropped a brush in his soap bucket and blurted, “Are you all right, sire?”

 

Arthur had blinked at him, his expression wiped blank in an instant, and said, “I’m fine, _Mer_ lin, and don’t think feigning concern for my health will get you out of doing your chores properly. Last time you scrubbed the floors all you did was shift the dirt around from one place to another.”

 

Merlin had swallowed his protest and bent back to his work, but he knew what he had seen, and from then on he had taken to watching Arthur watch him, a bizarre kind of cat-and-mouse game that only served to highlight the strained nature of the relationship between them.

 

One afternoon, Merlin was in the process of taking down the hangings from Arthur’s walls for their monthly wash and airing, when he was startled by a familiar voice asking, “If you still had your powers, would you be able to turn someone into a toad?”

 

Merlin yelped, and had to clutch at the curtains to stop from toppling off the ladder. He half turned to see Arthur leaning against the doorway, regarding him with an impassive expression, his arms folded across his chest. 

 

“I might,” Merlin answered warily. “I’ve never tried it before. Although I could look it up in my — in a spell book, I suppose.”

 

Arthur’s gaze sharpened. “You have a spell book? Here?”

 

“Not _here,_ here,” Merlin hedged, cursing his own stupidity for mentioning the thing. “But I do have one, yeah.”

 

“You really are a complete idiot, aren’t you?” Arthur asked conversationally, dropping his arms and sauntering into the room. “What about other animals? Scaring game towards a hunting party instead of away, for instance. Can you make them do your bidding, change your shape and become one of them?”

 

Merlin shook his head, feeling tired. “Why would I do something like that? You know I hate hunting.”

 

“That’s what sorcerers _do_ , isn’t it? Interfere with the natural order of things?”

 

“Some of them,” Merlin said evenly. “Not all.”

 

“So could you?”

 

Bewildered, Merlin could only shrug. “I suppose, if I wanted to. Why?”

 

But the king merely considered him for a moment, then nodded towards the window. “Your hangings are drooping. And make sure you treat them for moths, they’re getting shabby around the edges,” he added, before turning on his heel and leaving as inexplicably as he came. Merlin stared after him, confused and slightly annoyed. Arthur had always been an insufferable git but at least he usually made _sense_ about it. Trying to talk to him now was worse than talking to Kilgharrah at xir most cryptic.

 

 

 

 

After that, however, it seemed that something had shifted between them, because Arthur suddenly began to start actually taking an interest in Merlin’s magic. At first it was little things, like the comment about toads, which seemed to have been born primarily out of an idle curiosity, but there were other things, too, which Arthur liked to spring on him seemingly at random, and which had no rhyme or reason to their distribution that Merlin could discern. 

 

“Before,” Arthur said one evening, when he had been silent and staring at the parchment on his desk  for so long that Merlin had all but completed his evening chores and was getting ready to tiptoe away quietly, “How many of your chores did you do with magic, exactly?”

 

Merlin hesitated. Arthur wasn’t looking at him, but at some point beyond him in the middle distance, and his inability to read the king’s face made Merlin uneasy. “Most of the heavier or more difficult stuff, usually,” he said finally, seeing no reason not to tell Arthur the truth. What did it matter now, anyway? “Lighting fires with damp wood. Water for your bath.”

 

“Yes, I figured that much out for myself,” Arthur said dryly. “What else?”

 

“Um. Polishing your armour.”

 

“You used magic to _polish my armour?_ ” Arthur demanded, sitting up straight and looking at Merlin for the first time. “Are you mad!? What if you’d dented it?”

 

“Then I’d just have to magic the dent out again, wouldn’t I?” Merlin retorted, then bit his tongue. “It’s just that — it takes a long time, you see, and I do have to sleep at some point. I don’t know how other servants cope with all they have to do. At least, I didn’t. I guess now I’m learning.”

 

“As you should be,” Arthur said, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms with a cross expression. “I trust my life to that armour every day, I can’t believe you thought you could just magic it into perfect shape. You do realise that there’s an _art_ to taking care of metal? At least tell me you didn’t use magic on my sword.”

 

“Well,” Merlin hedged, making a face. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t lie to Arthur anymore, but that didn't mean it was easy, not when he knew that Arthur was going to react by yelling —

 

“ _Mer_ lin!”

 

“Technically the sword itself is magic,” Merlin said, feeling defensive. After all, he’d gone through quite a lot of trouble to acquire that sword, and he didn’t think a little magic would harm it. Especially not since he imbued it with some of his own strength and desire to protect Arthur every time he touched it. He did the same with Arthur’s armour, too, although somehow he thought the king might not appreciate being told that. “It’s not exactly going to hurt it.”

 

At this, Arthur fixed him with a look that could only be described as blistering.

 

“Tell me. Now,” he demanded, his voice brusque. “What do you mean, my sword is magic?”

 

“Well — _Excalibur,_ it’s…forged from a dragon’s breath?” Merlin cringed, his voice rising a little at the end, although it wasn’t a question. “I sort of…asked xir to burnish it…when you had to fight the wraith. It was for your own protection!”

 

The king’s expression would have been comical under any other circumstances, except that it was then that Merlin realised, right, he hadn’t actually _told_ Arthur about the dragon still being alive, and oh yes, the fact that he’d been the one who released it and was therefore responsible for quite a lot of death and destruction. And that wasn’t even the worst thing he’d done.

 

“You asked the dragon to breathe on my sword,” Arthur said flatly. “And it actually did what you told it to? And why, pray tell, should I believe such a ridiculous claim? Are you really that powerful?”

 

“Um.” Merlin rubbed at the back of his neck. He wished he had some way to occupy his hands aside from fiddling with the hem of his tunic; he felt ridiculous just standing there being interrogated. He turned away from Arthur and started rearranging his clothes again, just for the sake of having something to do. “At the time, xie was helping me to save you because of your destiny. But xie does what I say because, well. Because I’m a Dragonlord.”

 

There was silence behind him. Merlin braced himself.

 

“Say that again,” Arthur said, his voice low and dangerous.

 

“I’m a Dragonlord,” Merlin repeated obediently, closing his eyes as he returned Arthur’s second best tunic to its usual place. “The last, as a matter of fact. Balinor was my father.”

 

There was the sound of a chair scraping back, and Arthur’s footsteps, quick and sharp, coming towards him across the stone floor. Merlin half turned, was opening his mouth to speak when Arthur caught him by the shoulder and spun him into the closed half of the wardrobe door, so hard that the breath was all but knocked out of him. Arthur’s arm was across his throat, all of his weight behind it, their faces very close together.

 

“Was it you who let the dragon go?” Arthur demanded, still in that same, furious undertone. Merlin couldn’t find it in himself to be afraid of him — not of Arthur, not even now — but he had hoped, over the past few days, that things might one day return to normal; he’d wanted so badly for their relationship to go back to some semblance of the way it had been. Only now did he realise just how foolish and impossible that hope had been. “ _Did you let it go?_ ” Arthur asked again, sounding as wretched as Merlin felt.

 

“Yes,” Merlin said softly. He looked straight into Arthur’s face as he said it, hoping the guilt he still felt would show through in his expression. “It was the price for saving your life.”

 

He should have known, of course, that the explanation would only make things worse. Arthur shut down abruptly, his eyes going cold and remote, his lips thinning into an expression that was truly murderous. Merlin could have kicked himself.

 

“I ought to kill you where you stand,” Arthur ground out, his teeth clenched. His free hand strayed to his sword as if to make good on the threat, jaw flexing with suppressed emotion. “What gives you the right to make that sort of decision?”

 

“I couldn’t just watch you die, Arthur,” Merlin said, pleading, willing the king to understand. One hand rose to grip Arthur’s arm of its own accord. “I never could. Yes, it was stupid but Kilgharrah made me promise, and I couldn’t go back on my word.”

 

“You couldn’t go back on your word? To a treacherous lizard that killed dozens, if not hundreds of people and nearly ended up killing me anyway?” Arthur’s voice rose scornfully. “No, I can see why you’d want to keep an oath you made to that monster when you can’t keep a promise you made to _me_ for five seconds — “

 

“Your _father_ imprisoned xir beneath the castle for _decades!_ ” Merlin yelled, gripping the folds of Arthur’s tunic until he was fairly sure his fingernails must be digging into the king’s skin. “If anyone is to blame for the dragon’s actions, it’s him!”

 

“Don’t you dare talk about my father like that,” Arthur snapped. “He was your king!”

 

“Uther was never my king, Arthur,” Merlin said, and with the effort of trying to explain a great weariness seemed to flood through his veins, draining all the fight out of him. He slumped against the door, held up by Arthur’s weight and sheer force of will. “You are. You always have been. Everything I do, I do for you.”

 

“No, you don’t,” Arthur said, his lip curling. “Because if you cared about me at all you would know full well that I would rather die than let the people of Camelot suffer to save myself.” He shoved Merlin back against the door again and shook him slightly. “What else have you done, Merlin? What other threats have we faced because you decided it was your right to interfere? The dorocha? The immortal army? _Tell me what you’ve done_.”

 

The fury in Arthur’s tone stole Merlin’s breath, and he could only shake his head helplessly, trying to convey his innocence without words. The king made a contemptuous sound, and stepped away from him, abruptly letting Merlin go.

 

“I’m going to visit the armoury,” he said, his voice hard. “I want to check on my sword. Don’t be here when I come back. Do you understand?”

 

He didn’t wait for Merlin’s reply before leaving in a few brisk strides, slamming the door to his chambers behind him. Without Arthur’s grip to keep him upright, Merlin slid down the cupboard door and landed in a heap on the floor. He felt the same as he had the day that Lancelot had saved him from the Griffin — as if he’d narrowly escaped a terrible fate. And yet, coming face to face with the sharp edge of Arthur’s anger was almost a relief after so long, because now Merlin understood what had apparently gone completely over his head before. Like Lancelot, who had upped and taken himself off to a monastery instead of allowing Gwen to choose between him and the prince, he had never trusted Arthur to make the choice between his father's hatred of magic and the safety of his kingdom. Worse, still, he had repeatedly intervened in Arthur’s life without bothering to consult him, changing the outcome of events as he saw fit. Perhaps he hadn’t had much choice, to begin with — he’d had to conceal his powers, or risk being killed, and it was his _job_ to keep Arthur safe — but how many of those decisions had been made out of necessity and how many, especially lately, had he made simply because he could?

 

Not having had much opportunity to practice his magic openly, Merlin had never really considered the situation from someone else’s perspective before, so it had not occurred to him what it must be like to have someone more powerful than you holding all the cards. Just because _he_ knew that he would never hurt Arthur didn’t mean that Arthur had any such assurances, and it wasn’t as if Merlin had given him much reason to trust his motives, what with all the sneaking around behind his back poking into things that were none of his business. And then there was the fact that Arthur was the king, a man whose survival was frequently contingent on being the strongest person in the room, and who usually ended up being attacked by magic more often than not. For him to have suddenly discovered just how much of that survival he owed to someone else, a sorcerer, of all people, must have shaken his never-too-stable faith in himself to its foundations. 

 

Which meant, of course, that it wasn't the magic that Arthur had been so opposed to — it was how Merlin used it. Binding his powers, however noble a gesture, could not undo years and years of mistakes, or take away the fact that he had continually, unilaterally interfered where he didn’t belong. Merlin bent his head against he knees and breathed through a sudden bout of dizziness, the true magnitude of the situation only now beginning to sink in. Releasing the dragon was one thing, but if Arthur ever discovered what role Merlin had played in killing Uther, then it was all over. The king might forgive a lot of things, but he would never forgive Merlin for letting his own desire for freedom dupe him into becoming the instrument of his father’s death, even if he never did another jot of magic for the rest of his life.

 

At this point, Merlin wasn’t even certain that he would blame him. 

 

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

 

Arthur was used to council meetings seeming interminable, but that didn’t mean that he’d grown any better at dealing with the boredom over the years. In fact, there were days when he felt like if he spent one more second in the council chamber listening to a  half dozen minor lords and various important personages squabble over petty matters of state — there had once been a six hour long discussion about the proper colour of Arthur’s _wardrobe_ , for pity’s sake — he might quite possibly lose what was left of his mind. On days like today, however, the problem wasn’t so much that the topic under discussion was boring as the fact that Arthur was, against his inclination and his better judgment, entirely distracted by something totally different.

 

Said something totally different was currently waiting back in his chambers, no doubt tidying up this morning’s mess with a sullen expression on his stupid face and pretending not to glare at the bedroom door every few minutes.

 

Arthur wasn’t sure exactly how he was supposed to react to the news that his beloved sword — the one that he’d pulled out of a stone, the one that had cemented his right to the kingship in the minds of himself and his people — was magical in origin. That sort of thing was disturbing on a number of levels, most notably because Arthur’s run-ins with other magical objects over the years had tended to end very badly and with lots of near-death experiences. But quite apart from that was the knowledge that it had been forged with a dragon’s breath, the very dragon who had gone on to threaten Camelot, the dragon _Merlin had released from imprisonment under the castle._

 

And there, Arthur thought, picking moodily at his fingernails while Lord Ranulf expounded on the natural perfidy of all individuals with magical powers, was the crux of the problem. Merlin had known about the dragon. Merlin had _asked_ the dragon to create the sword, which it had apparently done, because Merlin could control dragons. Because Merlin was a _Dragonlord_. Leaving aside the fact that Merlin had neglected to inform him about Balinor, which he supposed he could understand given the circumstances, Merlin had still fabricated the entire legend and allowed the dragon to terrorise the citadel when he personally had possessed the means to stop it. He’d forced Arthur and his knights to risk their lives to kill the beast when —

 

Arthur suddenly straightened, and it wasn’t because Lord Ranulf had finally come up with something useful to say. _Had_ they killed the dragon? He hadn’t really been certain at the time, and had only accepted what Merlin told him because it had seemed the most plausible explanation for why it never came back. But what if Merlin had been lying? He'd never given much beyond a vague assurance to Arthur that he and his knights had mortally wounded the animal before being knocked unconscious; which, now that he thought about it, wasn't much of an explanation at all. If, on the other hand, Merlin had intervened once Arthur was out of the picture and ordered the dragon to depart, then he could quite easily have made up the whole bit about Arthur killing the dragon to put him off the scent. The idea was horribly plausible, which could mean that the beast was still out there, with only Merlin's willpower between it and the destruction of Camelot. And then there was Merlin’s magic to consider. What if in taking away his powers Arthur had unwittingly freed the Great Dragon to do whatever it pleased?

 

The king ran a hand through his hair and frowned down at the tabletop, losing all thread of the discussion that was going on around him. All this time, he'd thought the threat had been dealt with, only to realise that the victory was futile at best, a hollow mockery at worst. This was the trouble with magic; it made the efforts of mere mortals seem petty and worthless by comparison, and Arthur wondered with renewed despair whether he had ever in fact achieved anything of merit in his life thus far. Even his birth had been due to magic, if Morgause were to be believed — at the very least, the death of his mother and the ensuing chaos it had wrought on Uther's kingdom (and his peace of mind) had been magical in origin. Was his entire life destined to be dictated by the will of forces beyond his understanding or control? And if so, what did that make him — a king, or simply the pawn of fate?

 

As if on cue, Lord Ranulf chose that moment to slam his open palm down flat on the council table and shout, “We cannot allow them to dictate to us in this way. We must take action!”

 

“And what action do you propose we take, Lord Ranulf?” Sir Bors asked, sounding frustrated. “Negotiation is a two-way street. If they won’t come to the party, we can’t exactly force them. Not without risking a diplomatic incident.”

 

Ranulf leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. “That’s just it,” he said, jabbing a finger in the knight’s direction. “They’ve been more than happy to negotiate with us up till now — so what’s changed? Hmm? Why would they choose now to clam up?”

 

He glanced around the table, and when no one else spoke he threw up his hands. “Fine, I’ll tell you. They’re trying to delay the talks. They tried to kill Arthur, and since that didn’t work, they’ve been forced to make other plans. Even now, there could be a Druid army approaching Camelot’s borders. I say we arrest them all, and see what they have to say for themselves after they’ve spent some time in Camelot’s dungeons.”

 

A murmur of dissent ran around the collected gathering, which Arthur found heartening. At least some of his councillors knew nonsense when they heard it. He thought of Merlin again, willingly bound and magic-less just to prove a point, and then of the dragon like a looming storm cloud on the distant horizon and the lies — all the lies he must have been told, for years, that he had believed unthinkingly. He had thought that, by inviting talks with the Druids, he would be doing the right thing by both his father and Morgana, striking a compromise between their divisive extremisms and his own conscience and sense of duty. Now, however, he wondered if he wasn’t simply making things worse by trying so hard to achieve some sort of middle ground. The longer the Druids remained in Camelot, it seemed, the more polarised the debate became and the less he understood his own conscience. If he truly was the king Merlin had spun stories about, shouldn’t he be able to convince people to put aside their petty differences and take a leap of faith, for the good of the kingdom? Perhaps Merlin had the wrong person, and the _real_ king of Camelot was out tending fields somewhere, completely oblivious to his exalted destiny.

 

“It seems more likely to me that the Druids have finally discovered Morgana’s involvement with the Saxons, and are trying to decide how to respond,” Lord Cornell countered after a moment, with a quick glance at Guinevere. “With all due respect, perhaps we ought to have told them sooner, to have avoided this kind of reaction.”

 

“We have no proof that Morgana _is_ involved,” Lord Ranulf put in swiftly, apparently conveniently forgetting that he had originally argued for the exact opposite. “The scouting party still has not returned, despite the fact that Yule is almost upon us. If you ask me, they must have met with foul play. Perhaps _that_ is what has the Druids so excited.”

 

Arthur shook his head, irritated by the man’s persistent need to paint the Druids in the worst possible light, and decided it was about time to end this particular line of discussion before things got out of hand. He put up a hand to signal for silence.

 

“Thank you, Lord Cornell, Lord Ranulf,” he said, nodding at each man in turn. “Your opinions will certainly be taken under advisement.”

 

“I’m glad to hear it, my lord,” Ranulf said, an unpleasant sort of smile twisting his mouth. “As always, I live to serve.”

 

“I move to table the session for today,” Arthur continued, choosing not to dignify _that_ piece of empty self-congratulation with an acknowledgement. The only person Ranulf lived to serve was himself, and possibly his coffers. “So that Guinevere and I can try to find out whatever it is that has the Druids so upset, and do what we can to smooth over any ruffled feathers.” He pushed back his chair and got to his feet, trying not to wince at the noise as the others did the same. “Until tomorrow, gentlemen.”

 

The councillors bowed as he strode away, but Arthur barely acknowledged them. He could see Guinevere trying to catch his eye as she was leaving, but he pretended to be deep in thought and left by the opposite door so as not to have to speak with her. Things had not been right between them since he had told her about Merlin’s magic; she had barely spoken to him afterwards, becoming quiet and withdrawn in that way she had which suggested she was deeply unhappy about something. Arthur for his part found it difficult to speak to her now that he knew how much she had been keeping from him, especially not with this latest revelation weighing so heavily on his mind. He felt conflicted, restless, and after a split-second’s hesitation when he came to the main staircase made the decision to go down, rather than up. He told himself it had nothing to do with the fact that Merlin was most likely still in his chambers, waiting for him to return with fresh instructions, and everything to do with the fact that he’d just spent three hours listening to grouchy old men tell him what a stupid mistake he was making and had a deep desire to escape for a while.

 

“Saddle my horse,” he told the nearest stableboy as he strode out into the stable-yard. “You, fetch me some provisions, and my bow. I’m going hunting.”

 

“Yes, sire.” 

 

 

 

 

Arthur was gone the entire day, and he refused to feel guilty about it. When he finally returned to the citadel, a brace of rabbits and a young hare strapped to his saddle, his temper had cooled somewhat and he was able to consider the situation with a little more clarity. Perhaps he had reacted rather hastily to Merlin’s confession. Yes, the story about the sword in the stone had been a lie, but Arthur wasn’t stupid; he had suspected a hoax at the time, although he’d had no way to prove it and no way of knowing that Merlin had been the one pulling the strings. Merlin had told him once that belief could be far more powerful than knowledge, and belief was what they had needed then, no matter its source. There were times when politics was as much about the illusion of power as it was about the exercise of it, and Arthur knew that better than anyone.

 

The dragon was a different story. While it made Arthur uncomfortable for his peoples’ belief in him to rest on a false foundation, it was downright dangerous to allow his own assessment of his capabilities to be so off-base. His personal feelings aside, on a practical level he needed to have all the facts if he was going to be able to rule effectively, including a realistic understanding of his own skills and any other options at his disposal. He also needed to know his actions weren’t about to be countermanded or directly undermined by something Merlin was doing. If Merlin were powerful enough to command a dragon and counteract a magical poison with a touch, then what was stopping him from doing whatever he wanted to whomever he wanted, if he thought the object worthy enough? Much as Arthur had hoped to repeal the ban on magic for the sake of Camelot’s citizenry, it was beginning to look more and more like simply ceasing to persecute those with magic would not be enough. Lines had to be drawn somewhere, or else all hell would break loose the moment he made the proclamation. After all, how could he ever hope to control the magical population if he couldn’t even get his own manservant to respect his decisions? He could hardly keep his magic bound forever — the thought was too cruel to entertain, but nor could Arthur stomach the idea of losing him to the Druids, if he were simply to lift the magical death penalty as he had originally intended. If only there were some way to reconcile the two sides, to build some kind of lasting relationship that went beyond mere coexistence.

 

He had almost resigned himself to giving up and trying to fight both Morgana and the Saxons alone, without the Druids or their magic, in order to finally have done with the whole affair, when he caught sight of a familiar figure waiting for him in the castle courtyard. Merlin was sitting white-faced at the bottom of the steps, his hands clasped together in his lap and his head bowed, but he jumped to his feet the moment he saw the king.

 

“Arthur!”

 

“Merlin,” Arthur said, reining in his horse. “Is there any particular reason you’re sitting outside in the freezing cold instead of in my chambers seeing to the fire?”

 

“No, sire. I mean, yes, sire. It’s — someone tried to — I didn’t know what else to do,” he finished lamely, stuttering to a halt.

 

“Nothing new there, then,” Arthur said, after a moment’s uncomfortable silence, and dismounted. Merlin hovered beside him, close enough as if he wanted to reach out and touch, his entire being fretful and disturbed. Arthur made a show of loosening his horse’s saddle and taking its reins, giving them both time to recollect themselves before he asked, “What happened?”

 

Merlin glanced back and forth across the courtyard, though there was no one else within earshot, and in spite of himself Arthur found he was leaning closer to listen.

 

“It was the assassin, sire,” Merlin said, his voice low. “He tried again.”

 

Arthur blinked, momentarily forgetting that there was no way Merlin could know the first assassin was already dead. “What?”

 

“I was in your chambers, cleaning up after breakfast,” Merlin said, words tumbling out now that he had been given permission to speak. “I took your things down to the laundry and it took me a while to clean them — I’m still not used to it, you know, now that I don’t — I mean — well, anyway, I came back and I thought I saw someone leaving your rooms, so I went in to check in case it was someone who had a message for you, but — “

 

“But what, you saw they’d left me a note telling me to go die or something?” Arthur interrupted. “Really, Merlin, with your penchant for theatrics it’s a wonder you didn’t become an actor. I wasn’t anywhere near the castle today, no one could possibly have tried to kill me when I wasn’t even there.”

 

“Well, I don’t think they were aware of that fact, _sire_ ,” Merlin snapped, scowling at him. “Since when I went back in I was attacked by _this_.”

 

He held out the limp body of what appeared to be a dead snake, the thing flopping obscenely in his grip like an old belt. It didn’t seem particularly threatening to Arthur, but he took it anyway to humour the other man. It was small, for a snake, its scales a lurid, poisonous green, its fangs about the length of Arthur’s fingernail. Hardly a terrible threat to anyone, in Arthur’s opinion; the most intimidating thing about it was the colour, and the fact that it had feathers as well as scales, which was plainly unnatural and an offence to good taste. 

 

“What is it?”

 

“It’s a newly-hatched basilisk,” Merlin said, his voice grim. “A magical snake. One bite from one of those and you’d have been dead in seconds, turned to stone.”

 

Arthur stared down at the innocuous-looking thing, a feeling like ice water creeping through his veins. Innocent-looking or not, there was no second-guessing this kind of evidence. Someone obviously wanted him dead, and they were prepared to use magic to do it. Worse, they obviously didn’t care about putting the rest of his household in danger in the process. Could it have been the Druids after all, as Lord Ranulf insisted? What could they possibly hope to gain by such an act?

 

“Was the Queen there?” he asked Merlin sharply. “Did it hurt anyone?”

 

“No, everyone’s fine, as far as I know,” Merlin said. “Gwen wasn’t in your rooms, and I don’t think the snake had long hatched before I came in; it was still a bit sluggish. That was the only way I managed to catch it before it bit me.”

 

“It tried to bite you? Where?”

 

“My ankle.” Merlin shrugged, apparently unfazed. “It missed, obviously.”

 

“You were lucky.” Still, Arthur couldn’t help giving him a once over, surreptitiously checking for injuries. At least Guinevere hadn’t been in any danger, although he wondered where she had gone if not back to their rooms — perhaps she had gone for a walk; she had mentioned earlier that she wasn’t feeling well. “Can you describe the person who might have put it there?”

 

Merlin shook his head. “I didn’t get a good enough look,” he said regretfully. “And I didn’t want to cause a fuss in case they realised I was onto them. Only — when you didn’t come back, I thought…”

 

He didn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t need to. Looking closer, Arthur could see that Merlin’s pallor was not solely the result of sitting too long on a cold stone stair. He had been worried.

 

“I can take care of myself, Merlin,” Arthur said, annoyed. He didn’t want to think about the fact that  maybe there were some things he couldn’t defend himself against. “I told no one where I was going, and only the stablehands knew I’d even left.”

 

“You could still have been injured,” Merlin muttered, his voice sulky, and Arthur felt an unwarranted surge of affection for him that he couldn’t quite tamp down. “Your horse could have thrown a shoe or broken its leg. You could have been attacked by bandits. You’re the _king_ , Arthur, you can’t just disappear for a day because you get sick of listening to your own council.”

 

“I didn’t get — “ Arthur started, then stopped, because all right, yes, that was what had happened, although how Merlin knew that was an open question. Had he been spying on the council? Or was that just something magic-users could do, read peoples’ thoughts and emotions like an open book? Arthur shook his head. “I was hardly in any danger,” he amended. “And now that I’m certain there’s another assassin about, I promise I’ll be careful.”

 

Never mind that Merlin neither deserved nor seemed to have intended to elicit such a promise. Arthur winced. Speaking of taking care of himself, he needed to remember to be on his guard against this man. Despite his anger, he couldn’t bring himself to believe that any of Merlin’s crimes had been done out of deliberate malice. Nevertheless, the man was still dangerous, perhaps more so than he would have been had he been motivated by ill intent. Merlin had been running about unchecked for too long; he had become just like all the other sorcerers, seeing only the end and never the means. And Arthur couldn’t afford to become complacent just because this sorcerer seemed to have decided his aim was to _help_ Camelot rather than hinder it. As the dragon’s attack on the citadel amply demonstrated, good intentions could wreak just as much havoc as evil ones where magic was concerned.

 

“What do you mean, _another_ assassin?” Merlin asked, sounding suspicious. “What happened to the first one?”

 

“He was a victim of his own bad judgment,” Arthur said, with grim satisfaction. “But it seems that he wasn’t working alone. I feared as much.” 

 

“You knew there was a possibility that you were still in danger and you still went off into the woods by yourself?”

 

Arthur scowled at him. “I didn’t know for certain there were others involved,” he said. “Besides. As I’ve already told you, Merlin, I can — “

 

“ — take care of yourself. Yes, sire." Merlin’s voice was bitter. “I’ll just sit here and twiddle my thumbs while someone tries to murder you in your sleep, then, shall I?”

 

Arthur looked at him. Merlin was shivering now, the idiot having come out without his cloak, although he seemed not to notice because he was too busy glaring at Arthur’s feet. His hands were tucked up into his sleeves and notably lacking in gloves, even though Arthur knew for a fact that this wasn’t because Merlin didn’t own any. The king rolled his eyes, and chucked the basilisk carcass into a nearby brazier, wherein it combusted with a puff of violet smoke.

 

“No, Merlin,” he said, giving the other man a little shove towards the castle. “No thumb-twiddling. Go inside and make up the fire before you freeze to death, you absolute incompetent. I’ll be in after I’ve dealt with my horse.”

 

“No,” Merlin said stubbornly, and Arthur’s eyebrows rose in surprise. This was the first time Merlin had openly defied him since he’d voluntarily given up his magic. “I mean — no, sire, please. Let me come with you. Just in case.”

 

Just in case of what, he didn’t say, but Arthur had some idea. Once, it would have amused him that Merlin thought he’d be any use whatsoever against an assassin, especially a magic-wielding one. Looking at him now, wan and sick-looking in the waning light, it hardly seemed possible that he could hurt a fly, let alone hold his own against anyone determined to do violence to his king. And yet. Arthur was still here, wasn’t he? And there had been so many close calls over the years, with Merlin right by his side to give him that blinding grin and tell him what Arthur was now certain was a pack of absolute lies about how things had really gone down.

 

“I’m fairly sure I’ll be safe in my own stables,” Arthur said, rather more gently than he might otherwise have done. Because Merlin didn’t have his magic now, and he was starting to realise how difficult that must be — like losing a sword in the heat of battle. “If they planted something in my bedchambers they’re hardly likely to try anything in the stable, are they? That would be overkill. So to speak,” he added, when Merlin winced. “Go _inside_ , Merlin. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

 

Reluctantly, Merlin did as he was told, dragging his feet the entire way. Arthur stood frowning after him for a moment. Truth be told, Merlin had been looking rather haggard recently. At first, he’d assumed it was because having to do his chores manually was taking its toll, but the man looked genuinely ill today, with great dark circles under his eyes. Perhaps he was coming down with something, Arthur thought, then shook his head irritably. _Traitor,_ he reminded himself. _Liar. Sorcerer._

 

And yet, he thought as he untacked Hengroen and gave him to one of the grooms to brush down, somehow he couldn’t bring himself to hate Merlin, no matter the magnitude of his transgressions. Clearly he was going soft in the head.

 

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

 

Gwen’s first instinct, after learning what had happened to Ygraine, had been to find Arthur and confess everything to him, and perhaps to Merlin too, in order that together the three of them might discover some way to extricate her from the situation. Once the first flood of panic had passed, however, she realised that she couldn’t possibly tell the king anything. Exactly how much Arthur knew about Ygraine's death was an open question, but she had seen the way his face lit up the day she’d told him he was going to become a father, and it seemed too cruel to pollute that joy with the possibility that the pregnancy would kill her, especially when there might very well be nothing he could do about it. At least, if the worst happened, he would have no idea that magic and her own stupidity were to blame. She could not be responsible for creating another Uther. 

 

Merlin was another impossibility. Despite Lance urging her to go to him and explain the situation, and his own assurance that he would always be available for her to talk to, it proved extremely difficult to track him down and get him to stay in one place long enough to listen to what she had to say. He had avoided speaking to her when she had invited him to chat the day Lance had told her about Arthur’s mother, and afterwards seemed to become increasingly preoccupied. It didn’t help that whenever she caught sight of him in the hallways or in Arthur’s chambers, he continued to look as if he hadn’t slept in days, his whole face a mask of exhaustion and worry. She couldn’t place yet another burden on his shoulders, not now, and asking him to keep yet another secret from Arthur, when their relationship was already so fraught, seemed terribly selfish under the circumstances. 

 

The only other option Gwen could come up with that was at all feasible was that of the Druids. They had knowledge of magic, and with any luck would be able to help her, or at least point her in the right direction, yet they would not feel obligated to inform the king and for the most part had no personal stake in the situation. There was only one problem: the Druids had withdrawn from the negotiations a few days before, claiming to have received urgent news which required them to adjust the details of their position. They had refused to meet again until the issue was resolved, and nothing either she or Arthur could do would sway them from their decision. Which meant that Gwen could not be certain they would even agree to see her, let alone help with so delicate a problem. There was also the distinct possibility that they had been involved in the hunting ‘accident’ which had almost led to Arthur’s death. She would need to pick her words carefully to ensure she didn’t let anything slip that might be used against either of them.

 

In the end, however, Gwen felt that the safety of her life and that of her unborn child was worth a bit of political unpleasantness. She sent a note to Master Aerys, requesting that he meet her in her private sitting room, stressing in her message that it was to be a social visit only, and that they need not broach any of the more difficult topics should he not wish it. To her relief, the Druid leader accepted her invitation, and agreed to meet with her the following afternoon, after the early morning council session. It was more of a concession than Arthur had managed to obtain so far, which pleased her. Perhaps she wasn’t so terrible at this diplomacy stuff after all.

 

 

 

 

When the appointed hour rolled around, however, she began to doubt that she had made the right decision. The Master Aerys who arrived in her chambers was not the same, good-tempered man she had remembered speaking with these past few months. The Druid’s eyes were cold as he greeted her, and he swept into the room with only the most cursory of bows, an icy wind seeming to follow in his wake.

 

“We had wondered whether it would come to this,” he said, not taking the seat she had offered him. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, his mouth set in an uncompromising line. “I had not expected such underhanded behaviour from Arthur Pendragon, although perhaps I should have done. I suppose the apple does not fall so far from the tree.”

 

“I’m sorry?” Gwen blinked, taken aback by the hostility in his tone. “My Lord Aerys, I assure you, it was never our intention — “

 

“Tell me, what have you done with him? Have you killed him, or merely imprisoned him? I warn you, if you intend to ransom him to us in exchange for our assistance, you will find that we are not so easily bullied.”

 

Gwen could only stare at him. “What have we done with who?” she asked, bewildered. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you are talking about.”

 

Lord Aerys glared back at her for a long moment. As she watched, he seemed to become taller where he stood, and the room darker, until Gwen had the impression of a looming presence of immense age and implacability. Power rolled off him in waves, hard and angry, but instead of being intimidated Gwen found herself becoming angry in her turn. This was not the direction she’d had in mind for this little tete-a-tete. 

 

“My Lord Aerys,” she said icily, standing up with all the dignity she could muster. A muscle twinged in her back momentarily, but she ignored it. “I must tell you that I have absolutely no idea who or what you are talking about. If something my husband or I have done has upset you, then I am certainly very sorry, but I can assure you it was unintentional and certainly not an attempt to manipulate you. However, I must also tell you that I am not so easily bullied either, and I would appreciate it if you would kindly explain what it is you are talking about so that we may resolve the matter like civilised people.”

 

For a moment, she thought it hadn’t worked. Aerys continued to look daggers at her, his cloak billowing around his shoulders, and Gwen looked back at him, arms folded over her pregnant belly, trying not to give away the fact that her heart was racing in her chest and her knees were shaking under their layers of voluminous skirts. Finally, however, the chill began to leak slowly out of the room, and Aerys sighed, letting go of his anger and once more returning to his usual self.

 

“Very well,” he said. “I have no choice but to believe you. Please. Sit down, and I will explain.”

 

Gwen sat. After a brief pause, Aerys followed suit, and picked up one of the sweetmeats Gwen had Gytha lay out for them. He took a bite, chewed, then spoke.

 

“I don’t suppose you are familiar with the prophecies of the Once and Future King?”

 

Gwen shook her head. “I can’t say that I am.”

 

“My people have been studying them for centuries. I myself am not an expert, you understand — we have scholars who know far more than I ever will about divination — but the prophecies speak of a man called Emrys, one who will return magic to the land and inaugurate the reign of the Once and Future King. The Golden Age of Albion.”

 

Gwen raised her eyebrows. “And you think Arthur is that king?”

 

“Oh, yes. We felt Emrys’ presence the moment we arrived in Camelot. We had hoped he would reveal himself to us, but he did not, and then not long ago the presence vanished — as completely as if it had never been. We were confused. There are those among us who were convinced that your husband's sudden illness was a ruse to draw him out, and then capture him when he revealed his magic. We were afraid that you had discovered his importance to us, and thought to ransom his freedom in exchange for our assistance with the Saxons.”

 

“Arthur would never do that,” Gwen said firmly. “And neither would I.”

 

Aerys smiled. “Yes, I can believe that _you_ would not,” he said. “But if that was not the reason you wished to speak to me, then why have I been summoned here?”

 

Gwen hesitated for a moment. She had initially planned to present the problem as that of a friend, seeking guidance, but Aerys had been frank with her, and instinct told her that she could trust him. Finally, she said, “I'm afraid that has nothing to do with Emrys, or any kind of prophecy. I was hoping to ask you some questions about magic.”

 

“About magic?” He looked surprised, and then almost pleased. “By all means,” he said. “What is it that you wish to know?”

 

She told him about the woman she had spoken to and the spell she had used to conceive the child, detailing as much of the process as she could remember and then explaining to him the nature of Lancelot's warning. As she spoke, his face grew increasingly grave. 

 

“I wish I could help you,” he said. “But only those with considerable power can break such a bargain. Such things are well beyond my ability.”

 

“Then it’s true?” Gwen asked, her heart sinking. “To create a life, one must take a life?”

 

“I’m afraid so. Magic requires balance in all things, my lady,” he added, his voice softening. He leaned forward and took her hand, squeezing it gently. “If it is any consolation, it may not be your life which is forfeit for the spell. These things seldom work in the way one expects them to.”

 

“I’m not sure that’s really any better,” Gwen said shakily. She covered her mouth with her free hand and breathed deeply. There was still time. She just had to think this through. “Do you think Emrys might be able to help me? If he is as powerful as you say, perhaps he knows a way to safely break the spell.”

 

“He might,” Aerys said. “If you can find him.”

 

Gwen straightened her shoulders. “Then that is what I must do,” she said. She squeezed Aerys’ hand and set it gently aside, returning her own hands to her lap. Now was not the time for weakness. She met his gaze squarely. “If — no, _when_ I find him, I will send him to you, on one condition.”

 

She knew she had judged correctly when his eyes lit up. “Name it.”

 

“Someone is trying to kill my husband,” Gwen said. “And I want you to help me stop them.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** This chapter deals briefly with blood and other medical issues, including (past) miscarriage.

 

 

 

N I N E 

 

 

 

Merlin wandered anxiously through Arthur’s chambers while he waited for the king to return, his hands brushing over Arthur’s chair, his desk, the edge of his armoire as he tried to settle his nerves. It would have been so easy for Arthur to have died out there, alone in the woods. Sure, the king was handy with a sword, and if he didn’t think it would give him a big head Merlin would say he was one of the best knights in all of Albion. But Arthur was still recovering from his injury, and there was only so much a sword could do against sorcery. A basilisk was no ordinary creature; it killed quickly, painfully, and would have been easily recognisable as the work of magic. Only someone who was utterly stupid or utterly confident would use it against Arthur, and frankly Merlin wasn’t sure which option worried him more.

 

Finally, the door opened behind him and Merlin spun to see Arthur step inside, whole and unharmed and looking irritatingly unperturbed by the fact that there was someone out there who wanted him dead. The tightness in Merlin’s chest eased somewhat at the sight of him, but his stomach simultaneously clenched up. Arthur looked slightly windswept, his hair tousled and his cheeks flushed from the ride, and for an instant Merlin wanted nothing more than to hold onto him tightly and never let him go. 

 

“You haven’t started the fire,” Arthur said, by way of greeting. He shut the chamber door behind him and began to remove his gloves, looking cross. “Honestly, Merlin, what have you been doing up here while I’ve been gone? I thought I told you _not_ to stand around twiddling your thumbs.”

 

Merlin scowled, his concern immediately replaced by annoyance. Granted, he had forgotten all about the fire, but it wasn’t as if there weren’t more important things to be dealing with just at the moment - namely, keeping the king from being murdered in his own castle. With a glare at Arthur’s oblivious back, Merlin bent over the grate, his joints aching with the cold, and fumbled with the flint as he tried to get the fire to catch. Not for the first time, he wished he had the option of using his magic. Even if it would only anger the king further, at least then they would be able to get warm while Arthur yelled at him.

 

After half a dozen tries, he heard Arthur give a soft sound of frustration, and the king stepped up beside him, plucking the useless flint from his hands.

 

“You’ll never do it at this rate,” he said, not looking at Merlin, and promptly lit the fire easily on his first try. Merlin sat back on his haunches and watched the flames take hold of the dry tinder, letting the warmth wash over him as he tried to figure out what to say.

 

“It was the boar,” Arthur said abruptly into the silence. Merlin looked up at him, but the king was still looking at the hearth, his expression pensive. “That was what first made me suspect. Gwaine was right, it made directly for my tent as if someone had given it a map, and it seemed rather more intent on killing me specifically than a wild animal had any right to.”

 

“You asked if I could enchant animals to do my bidding,” Merlin said, suddenly understanding. “Did you — did you think _I’d_ — ?”

 

“No.” The response was too quick for it not to have crossed his mind, but at least Arthur sounded certain. “Whoever it was, he died in the attempt. The body Gwaine and Percival brought back was that of a man, not an animal.”

 

“A sorcerer?”

 

“So it would seem.”

 

Merlin considered. If Arthur didn’t suspect him — and Merlin didn’t see how he could — then there weren’t exactly a large number of alternative candidates. “You suspect the Druids.”

 

“Don’t you? They’re only magic-users I know of who have come to court recently, and they have good cause to want to kill me.”

 

Merlin eyed Arthur narrowly. Given his earlier encounter on the stairwell, his first inclination was to agree that the Druids were up to no good, but there was something about the way Arthur said it that made him suspect there was more to the seemingly-straightforward statement than met the eye. “The Druids stand to gain as much from the treaty as we do,” he said slowly, watching the king for some tell-tale clue. “Why would they sabotage the talks and risk everything by killing you? And with magic, too, when it would be so easy to trace it back to them? They had to know they’d be the first on everyone’s list of suspects.”

 

Arthur gave him a tight little smile. “Those are both very good questions, Merlin,” he said. “To which I don’t currently have the answers. But rest assured, I am going to find out.”

 

The two of them lapsed into silence again, and though Merlin knew he ought to be getting on with his evening chores, he found he was too cold and too unsteady still to move away from the heat of the fire. The king’s disappearance, coming as it had in conjunction with Merlin's discovery of the deadly snake, had shaken him in a way that had rarely happened before. At least if he’d still had his magic, he’d have known that there was something he could do about it if Arthur did not come back — scry for his whereabouts, perhaps, or go after him with a spell at the ready and decimate anyone who might try to hurt him. Now, however, hobbled as he was, the most he would be able to do was sit and wait, hoping that Arthur would eventually return. The sense of powerlessness was unnerving, and he wondered if that was how Arthur had felt when he’d woken to find Merlin standing over him, uncertain whether he meant to kill or cure. The thought was not a pleasant one.

 

“Arthur,” he said, and the king started a little, looking over at him as if he’d forgotten Merlin was there. “That night, when I healed you…”

 

“I do realise you were only trying to save my life,” Arthur said tiredly. “Just because I’m not happy about the way you did it doesn’t mean I’m completely ungrateful.”

 

“No, that wasn’t — “ Merlin sighed, and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “I was only going to say that I didn’t…I didn’t mean to scare you.”

 

Arthur let out a short laugh. “You don’t scare me, Merlin.”

 

“Don’t I?” 

 

Merlin held his gaze, and Arthur seemed to read the skepticism there, because he turned his head away. “No,” he said, his voice flat. “But you do worry me.”

 

“Because of the magic?”

 

Arthur nodded. “I don’t think any of you ever stop to think that just because you _can_ do something, doesn’t mean you should. You’re like a law unto yourselves, and heaven help the rest of us if we get in your way.”

 

It felt like a slap in the face. Merlin watched the golden firelight playing over Arthur’s familiar features, a confusing mixture of anger and guilt bubbling up inside him. Clearly, Arthur had not forgiven him for the dragon, or for anything else, and the unfairness of it was infuriating; yet so much of what Merlin had done had been ill-advised, and had such tragic consequences, that he couldn’t say it was entirely undeserved. He felt the throb of the shackles at his wrists, the cold metal searing his skin a reminder of how much he had given up in an effort to redeem himself. Surely that made him different from all the others, even if his methods were the same?

 

“I didn’t have a _choice_ ,” he said finally. He wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince: the king, or himself. “You know I didn’t. I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone.” 

 

“And yet, you did.” Arthur’s voice was harsh. “With the kind of power you have, Merlin, you can’t make a decision like that without expecting there to be consequences. My father used to tell me that a king has an obligation to think things through at least three times: once for himself, once for his people, and once for the kingdom he serves. I don’t think you even thought that through once, or surely you would have understood what a terrible idea it was.”

 

“I don’t know if Uther’s decision-making skills were necessarily as sound as he thought they were,” Merlin muttered, just loud enough for Arthur to hear. He pushed away from the hearth and stood, leaning over to begin helping Arthur out of his clothes. The king took half a step back before he realised what Merlin was doing, and Merlin yanked at the fastenings of his cloak, his next words coming out sharper than he had intended. “Kings, in my experience, are as prone to making mistakes as ordinary men. Perhaps more so, given that they are so often blinded by their own prejudice.”

 

He was talking about the Purge, for the most part, but he felt Arthur stiffen and knew he had taken the comment far more personally. In all honesty, perhaps Merlin had meant for him to.

 

“Do you really think so little of us — of me?” 

 

Merlin sighed. “Do _you_ think so little of _me_ ,” he said, meeting Arthur’s gaze. “To think I’d make a choice like that without thinking it through? There was no other option that would keep you safe, Arthur. And that has always been my main priority.”

 

Arthur didn’t seem to know how to respond to that, but that was fine with Merlin. He was tired of fighting, tired of being constantly forced to explain himself when he was no longer certain of his own aims or motives. He finished untying Arthur’s cloak and folded it neatly over the back of an armchair next to the fire, then moved on to the lacings of Arthur’s tunic. The material was still damp from the snow outside, and must have been cold against his skin, but Arthur hardly seemed to feel it. 

 

“What would you propose I do, then?” he asked finally, voice low and angry. “If I’m to avoid making my father’s mistakes? I can’t simply let sorcerers roam freely around the countryside, attacking all and sundry.”

 

“Maybe not,” Merlin agreed. He bent his head and focused on the buckle of Arthur’s belt, trying to ignore the uneven thumping of his heart. “But you could train them. Like you do with the knights. If you had someone — a few someones, even — who could teach them magic…”

 

“And make them into even more of a threat than they already are?”

 

Merlin glanced up; but although Arthur’s tone was challenging, his eyebrows were raised, as if he were waiting for Merlin to come up with a counterargument. Merlin swallowed hard. “Magic is a tool, Arthur. I know you know that, I’ve heard you say it more than once. And like any tool, it can be used to help or it can be used to harm.”

 

“So?”

 

“So what makes a man use his sword in Camelot’s defence instead of fighting against it? Why doesn’t one of your knights simply kill you and take the crown for himself?”

 

“Because they can’t,” Arthur responded at once. “They wouldn’t have the support, for one thing. And I’m more than a match for any of them with a sword.” But Merlin knew he was listening, so he ignored this, sliding the belt from around Arthur’s waist and dropping it onto the chair with his cloak. He helped Arthur pull the tunic off over his head, and waited until they were face to face again before he answered his own question.

 

“Your men don’t try to kill you,” he said. “Because they’re loyal.”

 

“And you think loyalty will stop a sorcerer from using their powers against me?”

 

The question almost made Merlin laugh. “If it can keep me from turning you into a toad for all these years? Yeah, I think it’ll help.”

 

Judging by Arthur's face, it honestly hadn’t occurred to him that Merlin might have been exercising any kind of self-restraint in that regard, but the brief moment of genuine surprise wasn’t worth the look of unease that came after it. Merlin sighed and stepped back, giving Arthur enough space to rein in his defensive instincts while he turned down the bed. He spoke over his shoulder.

 

“If you show them that you’re worthy of it, then they _will_ follow you, Arthur, I know they will. You only have to give them the chance.”

 

For several long seconds, the spit of the logs popping on the fire was the only sound Merlin could hear. He finished with the bed and picked up Arthur’s tunic, folding it mechanically, his hands moving independent of conscious thought while the majority of his attention remained fixed on the king. Waiting.

 

“Morgana will never concede to follow me,” Arthur said at last. “Nor will her allies.”

 

“No,” Merlin allowed. He gnawed at his lower lip, choosing his words carefully. “But Morgana was betrayed first, and she was scared. She had no one to turn to, so she chose the only option that seemed open to her at the time. You could offer an alternative, for those who wanted it. Something that would stop them from turning against you, while ensuring they are free to practice their magic in Camelot.”

 

There was another pause, and Merlin held his breath.

 

“Some kind of spell,” Arthur said softly, uncertainly. “Is that what you’re suggesting?”

 

Slowly, Merlin raised his head. The king was staring at him still, his expression troubled, but when Merlin lifted his eyes Arthur’s gaze flicked down to where the thin bands of metal glinted around his wrists. As if unable to help himself, he reached out and caught one of Merlin’s arms with one hand, running his thumb over the silver circlet. “I will not enslave my people, Merlin. Magic or not.”

 

“No.” Merlin cleared his throat. “No, I know that. But knights have a code, don’t they? And if a sorcerer chose — if they _wanted_ to serve you, and learn to use their magic, then…” He groped for the right words. “In the Old Religion, an oath, especially one enforced by magic, is a sacred thing. It’s not as strong as a binding compulsion, but any sorcerer who made a vow to protect the Crown would think twice before breaking it.”

 

“And would therefore think twice before acting against me,” Arthur surmised, finishing the argument for him. They stared at each other, something like a smile starting to form in Arthur’s eyes as he thought the concept through. “Magic policing magic. Could it be done?”

 

“I think so. I mean, I’m not sure. I’ve heard of similar spells, but I’ve never cast one.”

 

“No, I mean, would they agree to it?” Arthur was intent. “It seems a lot to ask, after everything my father did. Why should they trust me?”

 

It was a good question. Most of those who had magic were outsiders, isolated and frightened, living in fear of their neighbours turning them in to face the king’s justice. There was little reason for them to trust Arthur now, no matter how cosy he was with the Druids — but they might trust Emrys.

  
“I meant what I said before,” Merlin said, shrugging, but avoiding Arthur’s eyes. “I believe they will follow you, if you give them cause to. But that part will be up to you.”

 

Arthur nodded, apparently satisfied.

 

“A guild of sorcerers,” he said, almost to himself. “And if we could train both groups to work side by side — magical _and_ non-magical…”

 

A spark of excitement stirred to life in Merlin’s gut, ignited by the look on Arthur’s face. This was something he had been thinking about for almost as long as he’d lived in Camelot, but he had never expected to have the opportunity to discuss the subject, let alone have Arthur openly consider implementing it. For all his dislike of magic, it was clear that Arthur was determined not to let it stop him from finding a way to help his people — _all_ of his people — and Merlin found himself caught between pride and an unexpected pain. All he had ever wanted was for Arthur to know him and accept his magic; now it seemed that Arthur would cheerfully accept his magic, but reject _him_ , and the thought was as ironic as it was upsetting. Yet Merlin could come up with no way of fixing the situation that might not also make things worse. 

 

“It won’t be easy,” he said. Arthur’s thumb brushed across his wrist once more before dropping away as Merlin moved, and he touched the place it had been, instinctively registering the loss. “But it is an option.”

 

“Which is more than we had before,” Arthur agreed. There was a notch between his brows that suggested he was thinking deeply about the subject, but he didn’t venture anything further, so Merlin quietly crossed to fetch his nightshirt from the wardrobe, not wanting to disturb his concentration. Arthur allowed himself to be helped into it without fuss, and sat without prompting so that Merlin could take off his boots. At last, when both boots and breeches had been removed and he was ready for bed, he glanced at Merlin again, one side of his mouth quirking upwards. “You know, you’re really not as much of an idiot as you like to pretend, are you?”

 

Merlin flushed, and ducked his head. “I told you, I have many hidden talents, sire. You can’t be expected to notice all of them.”

 

“Maybe not.” Arthur’s smile faded. “Although I might have found it easier if you hadn’t gone to such lengths to hide them from me in the first place.”

 

It was a gentle reproof, all things considered, but it was enough to make the fragile happiness in Merlin’s chest burst like a pricked soap bubble. If ever there was a moment when he ought to confess everything, to lay it all out at Arthur’s feet and hope for forgiveness, it was now, when Arthur actually seemed ready to listen. But whatever might have moved him to speak to Merlin tonight, it was clear that Arthur didn’t really trust him; perhaps couldn’t trust him, not anymore, and the thought of risking what ground he had so unexpectedly gained was more than Merlin could bear. He could feel the king’s eyes on him, but refused to take the hint implicit in the silence, instead using the opportunity to gather Arthur’s things and set them out ready for the morning.

 

“Right,” Arthur said, when it became apparent that Merlin wasn’t going to respond. “Of course.” He sounded briefly regretful, but when he next spoke his voice had once more returned to its earlier cool formality. “That will be all, then, Merlin. Good night.”

 

Merlin let out a shaky breath.

 

“Yes, sire,” he said, unwilling to risk a glance towards the bed. “Good night.”

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

It snowed heavily overnight, and the next morning the castle found itself covered in another several inches of white powder, its already chilly halls frosted with ice as winter tightened its grip on the kingdom. Arthur woke in the small hours when his fire flickered out, and was too cold and too disturbed to fall back to sleep. He had been dreaming — he wasn’t sure about what, only that it had been vaguely upsetting, and he was glad to be awake. Guinevere was once again absent, this time having slept in another chamber for the night, and without her beside him the sheets were chilled and faintly accusatory, for all that she had claimed it was so that she would not disturb him.

 

With a sigh, Arthur rolled out of bed and got up, wincing at the cold stone under his feet. It would be a hard winter, that much he already knew, and for a moment he forgot about his own troubles as his thoughts ranged out over the frozen countryside, thinking about Camelot and her people. The year before, they had lost half the grain stores to mould and rot, and a significant percentage of the population to cold and starvation before the temperature had thawed. It was something he had wanted to ask the Druids, although so far he had yet to find the opportunity. Would magic be able to keep his subjects warm in their beds, to ensure they had enough food and water to last until spring? Would it protect them from drought and famine, from the depredations of wild animals and roaming banditry? It was a hopeful thought, and yet also an unsettling one. If there were a way to do such things by magical means, then depending on a king who did not have magic seemed like a waste of resources. Whatever he might say about Arthur’s _destiny_ , Merlin obviously didn’t think he had a hope of coping with things on his own, not without some kind of magical assistance. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps all Arthur and his father had been doing all these years was delaying the inevitable, clinging onto their pride at the expense of their people. Perhaps he was holding Camelot back.

 

By the time Merlin entered with Arthur’s breakfast, the king had already dressed himself and was seated by the window, a book open on his lap but his eyes turned towards the snowy courtyard below. He looked round when Merlin came in, catching the sudden stop as his manservant registered that the bed was empty.

 

“Over here,” Arthur said, and Merlin jumped. His hands tightened on the breakfast tray as though he half thought he might need to use it as a shield, but when he caught sight of Arthur he relaxed. 

 

“You’re awake.”

 

“Well spotted.” Arthur abandoned his book and got stiffly to his feet. Pins and needles rushed up his legs, and he shook them off with annoyance; had it been the assassin, and not Merlin, who had greeted him that morning, he’d have been hard pressed to defend himself. Stupid. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d get an early start.”

 

“On what, your impending death by hypothermia?” Merlin put down the breakfast tray and fetched Arthur’s winter cloak, and the king allowed himself to be helped into it with raised eyebrows. Apparently, his manservant had decided that their discussion last night meant they were speaking again, after a fashion. “I’ve brought you some soup. You’d better eat it while it’s hot.”

 

“Yes, Mother,” Arthur said, but Merlin didn’t laugh.

 

Nevertheless, although Merlin also didn’t smile, didn’t chatter, and barely even looked at Arthur as he laid out the breakfast things, it was probably one of the more normal interactions they’d had since Arthur had discovered Merlin’s secret. Arthur sat down and tore off a strip of bread to dunk, then chewed slowly, watching as Merlin crouched down to clear out the ashes so that he could relight the fire. He still had yet to grasp the proper technique for striking a flint without magic, a fact which served alternately to amuse and irritate the king by turns. It really wasn’t that difficult, yet Merlin continued to be inexplicably clumsy about the simplest things, and Arthur wondered if that was because, to him, it felt as unnatural to light a fire using his hands as it would have to Arthur to do it using magic. He had so many questions, ranging from the trivial to the more intimately personal, but he wasn’t sure Merlin would answer any of them if he asked. He wasn’t sure it wouldn’t be better for both of them if he didn’t try.

 

When Arthur was half-way through his cooling and admittedly unappealing breakfast, a knock on the door recollected him from his musings, and he called to whoever it was to come in, pushing away his tray so as to appear less preoccupied. 

 

“I apologise for interrupting your meal, my lord,” Sir Lancelot said, glancing at Arthur’s plate and then at Merlin, who paused in his work for a moment to flash the knight a brief smile. “I wondered whether I might speak with you on a matter of some importance.”

 

“Of course,” Arthur said, surprised. “Come in and join me, there’s plenty to go around.”

 

“Thank you, my lord.” Lancelot smiled at him with some relief, and Arthur wondered whether he would look so grateful once he had tasted the lukewarm soup. Probably not.

 

“Well?” he prompted, after Lancelot had settled down across from him. The knight made no move to speak, glancing sidelong at Merlin with an uncertain expression. Presumably he was remembering their previous discussion and wondering whether Arthur’s manservant would be permitted to remain for this one, or if the king would once again dismiss him once he realised he was there. The memory made Arthur feel a twinge of shame. Perhaps it was what Merlin had said about loyalty, or perhaps it was simply that his advice the previous evening had been sound, even useful, no matter how Arthur had turned it about in his head afterwards in an effort to find some hidden catch that would precipitate Camelot’s destruction. Either way, it occurred to him that he had missed having someone to consult these past few weeks, and with his relationship with Guinevere now so strained, the temptation to let Merlin stay and listen to whatever Lance had to say was a strong one.

 

Before he could make up his mind one way or another, there was a sudden gasp from the fireplace, and the sound of something clattering to the floor. Startled, Arthur stood up in time to see Merlin swaying on his feet, what little colour had been in his face vanishing as his knees buckled. Lancelot scrambled hastily to his feet as well, but Arthur was there before him, darting into Merlin’s space to catch him before he fell.

 

“Merlin?” he demanded sharply. “What is it?”

 

“’s nothing.” The words were slurred. “Jus’ stood up a bit too fast, ‘s all.”

 

He attempted to shrug Arthur off, but the king wasn’t fooled. Merlin might look like a helpless waif, but however much Arthur might tease him about it he was not prone to fainting like a girl for no apparent reason. 

 

“You’re not well,” Arthur said, thinking back to his concerns the night before. The bruises beneath Merlin’s eyes were still there, and he looked paler than ever beneath a dusting of ash. “Have you slept at all in the last week?”

 

“’m fine,” Merlin said stubbornly. His entire body listed like a ship that had been holed below the waterline, most of his weight leaning heavily on Arthur’s supporting arm. “’m only a little dizzy, ’s all. It’ll stop in a minute.”

 

“Has something like this happened before?” Lancelot asked, coming around to Merlin’s other side to help prop him upright. He ran a hand down Merlin’s back in a comforting gesture, and Arthur ignored an irrational flare of annoyance to focus on Merlin’s face, which had taken on a decidedly shifty expression.

 

“Merlin?”

 

“M’be once or twice,” Merlin said reluctantly. “It doesn’ usually last this long, though.”

 

Arthur suppressed a sigh, and adjusted his grip. “Help me get him to the bed,” he said. “I’m afraid whatever you wanted to talk to me about, it’s going to have to wait.”

 

“Of course.” Lancelot nodded. Together, they managed to get Merlin to shuffle a few steps forward, although he was so light that it seemed less important to hold him up so much as to weigh him down before he floated away. Arthur pressed his lips together. He had known that Merlin was thin, but this was something else entirely; his manservant was now so skinny that if he turned sideways he would probably vanish. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed it before. 

 

“Merlin, your nose,” Lancelot said urgently, halting in his tracks so abruptly that Arthur nearly tripped over his own feet. Merlin put a hand up to his face with a sound of surprise, and when he brought it away again his palm was smeared with bright red blood.

 

“All right, that’s it,” Arthur said, tightening his grip on Merlin’s waist. “Lance, go and fetch Gaius. Tell him it’s an emergency.”

 

“’s not an emergency,” Merlin protested. “’m fine, honestly, it’s probably just the cold — “

 

Arthur ignored him. He caught Lancelot’s eye behind Merlin’s back and the two of them exchanged a speaking glance, then after a moment Lance nodded and slipped out the door. Merlin was still objecting when Arthur manoeuvred him the remaining few feet over to the bed, forcing him to sit down and put his head between his knees. “Pinch your nose,” he instructed, overriding his manservant’s complaints. “Just above the nostrils. No, don’t try and get up, you idiot, you’ll only make it worse.”

 

At last Merlin subsided and did as he was told, his bent neck making him look painfully defenceless in the dim shadows of the room. Although it was well past dawn by now, the winter sunlight was dull and in his typical lackadaisical fashion Merlin had failed to light any of the candles or open the remaining curtains before keeling over beside the hearth. Arthur hesitated for a moment, then sat down beside him and braced himself. “What is it?” he asked, low. “Are you ill?”

 

Merlin shook his head. “I found something,” he said, his voice sounding strange and stuffy around his blocked nose, but beginning to regain some of its clarity. He pointed with his elbow. “Over there.”

 

Arthur followed the gesture, and for the first time caught sight of a small amulet on the ground by the fireplace, still lying where Merlin had dropped it. It was about the size of a gold coin, though warped now from the heat of the fire, and there were symbols scratched into the surface that Arthur couldn’t quite make out. Attached to it was what remained of a thin cord of rope, all but burned away save for a few frayed strands still clinging to a hole in the centre. “You found that in the ashes?”

 

“Near the back. Someone must have tried to get rid of it — I wouldn’t have seen it if I hadn’t been looking.”

 

“Did it — what did it do to you?”

 

“I’m not entirely sure it did anything.” Merlin frowned at the talisman, confusion plain on his face. “It wasn’t — pain, exactly. It was just like a pulse of magic, only because I’m wearing these — “ He held up his other wrist so Arthur could see the shackle. “It didn’t work. Or something. I don’t know, I’m only guessing, but I think whatever that amulet is, it’s powerful.”

 

“And your nose?”

 

Merlin shrugged. “Probably nothing. It’s fine, now, anyway — it’s hardly even bleeding anymore, see?” He took his hand away, and Arthur could see that he was right; there was no fresh blood, although the dried gore that had smeared across his cheeks looked even more alarming now than it had been to begin with. Forgetting for a moment that he was still mad at him, Arthur pulled out his handkerchief and handed over for Merlin to clean his face.

 

“Did it hurt?”

 

“No. I felt it, though — like a weird pop, inside my head.”

 

Arthur snorted. “That wasn’t the magic; that was your brain, finally imploding.”

 

Merlin narrowed his eyes at him. “In any case, I think we can safely assume your assassin friend came back last night, and attempted to destroy the evidence.”

  
“Or to cast another spell,” Arthur pointed out. “We don’t know the charm and the snake aren’t connected.”

 

Merlin shuddered next to him. “I didn’t even think of that,” he said, balling the handkerchief into one fist. “Arthur, don’t you think if — if he keeps trying to kill you using magic, don’t you think that I should — ”

 

“No,” Arthur said, cutting him off. Merlin was hardly in a fit state to wrestle a kitten, let alone take on a determined assassin, with or without his magic. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Merlin. I don’t need your help.”

 

Merlin glared at him for a long moment, but Arthur held his ground, setting his jaw the way his father did when he’d made a decision and was not to be crossed. Finally, his manservant sighed and made a tired gesture with his arms. “Fine,” he said. “Fine. Why should I care what happens to you, anyway? I’m only your manservant, it’s not as if my opinion counts for anything.”

 

And that, Arthur reflected ruefully, was as much a lie as anything Merlin had ever told him. But then again, it wasn’t as if he were expecting anything else. 

 

 

 

 

Gaius’ examination of Merlin himself was more perfunctory than Arthur would have liked — Merlin had refused to tell him about the shackles, claiming they were irrelevant, and the physician seemed inclined to agree that his symptoms were caused by nothing more than the cold weather and overwork, for which he obviously blamed Arthur. When the king told him about the amulet, however, he used the handkerchief to pick it gingerly out of the ashes, holding its grimy face up to the window to inspect the runes scratched into its surface.

 

“Can you read it?” Arthur asked, watching him from his seat at Merlin’s side. “Is it dangerous?”

 

Gaius squinted at the letters, his spectacles perched on the end of his nose, mouth moving as he painstakingly made out the words. “Indeed, sire, I can read it,” he said at last. “And it is certainly dangerous. But not, perhaps, in the way you mean. This is a Druidic fertility charm.”

 

Arthur darted a quick look at Merlin to see if he was laughing, but his manservant appeared unusually sober as he caught Gaius’ eye. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice strained. “Perhaps someone thought it was a lucky charm, and threw it away when they realised their mistake.”

 

“There are only a few people that have access to my chambers,” Arthur said. He glanced between Merlin and Gaius, sensing a secret but unable to divine its source. “Even fewer who would have use for an item like that.”

 

“A serving maid, perhaps,” Merlin said, his eyes still on the physician. “One of Gwen’s ladies in waiting?”

 

“Or the Queen herself,” Lancelot said, very quietly. The other three jumped, and when they turned towards him he got to his feet and paced across Arthur’s chambers, his hands clasped behind his back. “She spoke to me in confidence, but I’m afraid there can be no mistake. I’ve been trying to tell you — “ This not to Arthur, but to Merlin. “I’ve been trying to speak to you about it for days. It’s like what happened with Ygraine all over again.”

 

Arthur watched as Merlin’s face crumpled in shock, his hands fisting convulsively in the bedcovers. “She wouldn’t.”

 

“She _did_ ,” Lance insisted, and Arthur felt his stomach sink, his heart kicking sickeningly against his ribs. There was obviously more to this picture than a simple fertility charm, and the sting of yet another betrayal faded with the realisation that Guinevere and their child might be in danger. He had not forgotten Morgause’s terrible lies that day he had almost killed his father. Lance’s words conjured a spectre that had been hovering at the back of his mind ever since he had learned that his wife was pregnant: would he gain an heir only to lose his queen, just as his father had done before him? He couldn’t believe Gwen would knowingly risk herself or their child in such a way; but then, he wasn’t the greatest judge of character, especially where magic was concerned.

 

“All right,” Arthur said, straightening his back and swallowing down everything else he wanted to say. “I think you’d better tell me what’s going on.” He looked at Merlin, still sitting frozen at his side, and then at Gaius, who was pale and stooped, for once looking every year of his age. “ _All_ of you. No more secrets.”

 

Gaius’ eyebrows drew together, but he did not protest. “As you say, sire,” he said heavily, taking Lancelot’s abandoned seat by the fire. “What is it that you wish to know?”

  
“Everything,” Arthur reiterated grimly. “Starting with what the hell this has to do with my mother.”

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

The stables were nearly deserted when Gwen visited them after breakfast. That much was no surprise — she had deliberately chosen a morning when she could be certain the horses were not likely to be needed, so the there would be no knights or unpredictable destriers in the aisles to get in her way. She stopped just over the threshold, inhaling the sweet scent of fresh hay and the deeper, more earthy odour of horses and horse droppings, and couldn’t suppress a sigh of pleasure.

 

“Welcome to the royal stables,” she said, turning back to smile at her guests. “I’m sorry it’s been so long since I last saw you. I’m afraid I haven’t had much time to myself recently, or I’d have invited you here sooner.”

 

“We’re very excited to be here, aren’t we, Mara?” Amira said, putting a hand on her daughter’s dark head. “She hasn’t stopped talking about it since your last visit, even though I explained to her that your duties might keep you busy for some time.”

 

From the way she said it, Gwen guessed it wouldn’t be the first time an adult in Mara’s life had disappointed the little girl, and she felt a pang of guilt for having taken so long to fulfil her promise. She leaned down to meet the child’s eyes. “I have been very busy,” she said. “But I didn’t forget. In fact…” She drew a small sack of sliced red apples from behind her back. “I brought you something to give to the horses, to help them get to know you better. Would you like that?”

 

Still hiding behind her curtain of black curls, Mara nodded, and Gwen beamed. “Excellent! Why don’t you give the first one to that pony over there? His name is Pepper, and he’s very friendly.”

 

With the little girl safely distracted, Gwen leaned against one of the empty stalls beside Amira, trying to gather the words for what she must say. The older woman’s eyes were on her daughter, watching as the child greeted each animal in turn with a smile and a slice of fruit. She was obviously familiar with livestock, as she knew to hold out her hand with the palm flat, fingers and thumb together so as not to be bitten by mistake, and she only stroked the horses’ soft noses once she was certain they weren’t going to object. 

 

“I have to confess something,” Gwen said finally, keeping her voice light so as not to give away her tension. “I’m afraid I had an ulterior motive for inviting you both here today.”

 

Amira’s gaze turned wary. “Oh?”

 

“Nothing bad!” Gwen hastened to assure her. “It’s just that, well, I was wondering if I might ask you a few questions. You see, I’m — trying to locate a friend of mine. A man by the name of Emrys? And I was wondering whether you might have heard of him. I had word he was staying somewhere in town.”

 

Amira studied her for a long moment. “Is he important, this Emrys?”

 

“Only to me.” Gwen flashed her a quick smile. “I need to ask his advice about something, that's all.”

 

Her friend's expression remained clouded, however, even in the face of this reassurance. “I’m afraid I don't know anyone by that name,” she said. “You might try asking Gytha, the innkeeper’s niece. If someone were passing through, it’s likely she’d know of it, or have some idea who would.”

 

Gytha? Gwen frowned. It wasn’t a very common name, but perhaps it was merely a coincidence — or perhaps Amira had gotten her mixed up with someone else. “Thank you, I will,” she said, smiling, and Amira nodded and relaxed, her gaze drifting back towards her daughter. 

 

“Thank you for doing this,” she said, nodding at the girl. “I’m afraid the other children sometimes — they are not always kind to her. Meeting you has given her a great deal of confidence.”

 

“I’m glad,” Gwen said honestly. “I remember what they can be like.”

 

At Amira’s questioning glance, she elaborated: “My father was a blacksmith. I used to work here at the castle, before I married Arthur.”

 

“Then you will understand.” She sounded relieved. “I do try to encourage her to make friends, but she says she would rather talk to the horses.”

 

Gwen laughed. “To tell the truth, sometimes so would I.”

 

Amira smiled, but when she next spoke, she sounded as though she had come to a decision. “This man, Emrys — I don’t know if he is the one you are looking for, but there are stories…My lady, you must be careful. They say he has power over life and death itself.”

 

There was fear in her voice, and Gwen felt her own heartbeat pick up in response. She glanced over at Mara, who was talking to a grey gelding in a serious voice, explaining that she couldn’t give him another piece of apple so he was going to have to share, and said as calmly as she could, “And where did you hear these stories?”

 

But Amira shook her head; she had come to the limit of what she was willing to say, and Gwen knew she ought to be grateful to have learned that much. Yet it was nowhere near enough. She bit her lower lip, frustrated, and was struggling to come up with something that might induce Amira to talk when the stable door slid open, and a young woman stepped inside. When she saw Gwen and Amira she stopped, her grey eyes widening.

 

“Oh,” she said, fumbling for a moment before dropping into an awkward curtsey. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, I had no idea there would be — I did not expect to find you here.”

 

“That’s quite all right,” Gwen said, gesturing for her to rise. “This is hardly an official visit; I'm just giving some friends a tour.” She looked at the woman more closely, trying to put a name to the face. “Lady Agnes, isn’t it? Lord Ranulf’s wife?”

 

The woman’s cheeks flushed, and she looked down. “Your Majesty is kind to remember me.”

 

From most people it would have been formulaic, but Lady Agnes seemed to actually mean it. She had the appearance of someone who wasn't used to being remembered; she was small and rather mousey-looking, with pale, wispy hair and a pale, wispy sort of face, and she looked very young to be a Lord’s wife. She had wrapped up well against the weather, dressed in a long, flowing gown and a fur cloak that was fastened beneath her chin with a brooch that must have cost a small fortune. Gwen could feel Amira’s hesitation beside her, and guessed she wasn't sure how to handle the encounter. She had treated Gwen as an equal almost from the beginning, but Gwen had been dressed plainly on the day they had met, and had spoken to her like any common woman might speak to another. Lady Agnes was of a different calibre altogether: in spite of her shyness, nobility had obviously been bred into her bones.

 

“We don’t want to keep you,” Gwen said, after a moment, deciding that the best way to deal with the awkwardness of the situation was to ignore it. “Were you looking for someone?”

 

If possible, Lady Agnes’ cheeks turned even redder. “I was — out taking the air, my lady,” she stammered, pulling the cloak tighter about her thin frame. “But the weather — it’s so cold, I only stepped inside for a moment to get out of the wind. I was expecting the stables to be empty — I’m so sorry to have interrupted you.”

 

Gwen waved aside the apology. Lady Agnes seemed nervous, although it was hard to tell whether that was because she had reason to be or if it was simply her natural state. Living with Lord Ranulf could not have been easy for the poor girl. “Think nothing of it,” Gwen said, injecting some warmth into her voice. “In fact, you are welcome to join us. I know the councillor keeps some horses here; perhaps you might like to point them out to us?”

 

At the mention of her husband, however, Lady Agnes seemed to shrink in on herself, becoming even smaller.

 

“Thank you, my lady, but I can't stay,” she said. “There is — I just remembered an errand that I must…” She backed towards the door, darting a glance at Amira and Mara standing behind Gwen, and then with another hasty curtsey, she was gone. Gwen stared after her for a moment, nonplussed. It was possible, she supposed, that Lady Agnes had been coming to the stables to meet with a beau, but Gwen found it hard to believe, if only because the girl seemed so very timid. Perhaps it was simply that she was unused to being noticed by royalty. 

 

“Do people often react to you like that?” Amira asked, as if reading Gwen's thoughts, her voice rich with amusement. “I imagine it must make it hard to make friends.”

 

“It can be somewhat difficult,” Gwen acknowledged ruefully. The two women’s eyes met, and they shared a glance of tentative understanding. In spite of her disappointment at the interruption, and the frustration of not having been able to learn more about Emrys, Gwen found herself smiling. The morning had not been altogether wasted.

 

She looked down at Mara, who had returned to her mother's side, the empty sack of apples forgotten in her grip. “Shall we see if we can find one of the stable boys?" She asked, holding out her hand. "If you’re lucky, they might be able to introduce you to the royal mascot. His name is Baronet, and I've heard he's an excellent mouser.”

 

 

 

 

After the chill of the courtyard, the castle entrance hall was almost warm, although even then it was only a matter of degrees. Gwen stomped the snow off her shoes as she stepped inside, thinking only of the welcoming fire in her chambers and the opportunity to change out of her soaking skirts before she ate her lunch. It took a moment for her to register that someone was calling her name.

 

"Yes?" She turned. Arthur was striding towards her, a look on his face that made her back straighten instinctively. Merlin was a few steps behind him, shooting her an apologetic glance over Arthur's shoulder as he struggled to keep up.

 

"Where have you been?" Arthur asked abruptly, coming to a stop in front of her. This close, Gwen could see the muscles in his jaw jumping, the way they always did in the grip of strong emotion. "I've been looking for you all morning."

 

"I was out in the stables, with the horses." Gwen stared at him, then glanced around the room at the curious onlookers, acutely conscious of her sweaty face and dishevelled appearance. The castle wasn't exactly bustling at this time of day, but there were enough people around that they were starting to attract attention.

 

“Arthur,” Merlin said quietly, apparently noticing the same thing. He put a restraining hand on the king's arm. “Not here.”

 

Arthur shook him off, but Gwen saw him taking in their audience, his expression changing as if he had only just registered where they were. “Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “Not here.” 

 

He turned on his heel and marched off down the corridor, so that Gwen had no choice but to hurry after him, leaving Merlin behind as she followed her husband down one of the many passageways into the heart of the castle. Even though she couldn't hear the whispers, she knew that the story would be all through the court by suppertime, no doubt richly embellished with gossip and speculation. Humiliation burned her cheeks. She wasn't certain what Arthur thought was going on, but she knew exactly what the rest of the courtiers would be thinking by this time tomorrow. As if they didn't hate her enough already.

 

Finally, the king turned into one of the unoccupied rooms and shoved the door open, gesturing for her to enter first before following her inside and slamming the door behind him. Gwen stood in the centre of the room, the hem of her dress still clinging to her legs, and waited, shivering, for him to speak.

 

“You used magic,” Arthur said, after a moment of silence that seemed like eternity. He wasn’t looking at her, leaning so that his back was pressed against the wood of the door as if he needed the support. “You used magic in order to get pregnant.”

 

It was typical of him, really, to fling the accusation at her feet like a gauntlet, concealing his hurt behind a facade of juridical bluntness. She took hold of the back of a chair to steady herself, and squared her shoulders. “Yes, I did.”

 

“Why didn't you come to me?” Arthur asked, still without lifting his head. “We could have spoken to Gaius, found a way of moving forward without magic.”

 

“There was no way forward without magic." Gwen's hands were trembling. “Without that charm, I would likely have remained barren for the rest of my life. Surely our son is worth breaking a law you’re on the verge of changing anyway?”

 

She saw Arthur’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard, and finally he turned towards her. He wasn’t angry at all, Gwen realised with a sudden jolt. He was _frightened_. “Not at this cost,” he said hoarsely, his blue eyes pleading as they met hers. “Guinevere, _why_ — ?”

 

“Don’t.” She backed away. Tears sprang to her eyes, but she wasn’t sure which one of them she was angriest at; him for not seeming to care just how much pressure he’d put her under, or herself for not trusting him enough to try to make him see. “If you know everything, then you know I didn't realise this would be the price, so don't act as if I made the choice knowingly. You can't pretend you don’t understand the demands of my position, or why I might want to be certain of the one thing that would make me worthy in the eyes of your court.”

 

Arthur took a step back. His arms dropped to his sides, a flash of pain crossing his face before disappearing.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice stiff. “I had no idea being married to me was so much of a burden for you.”

 

“That’s not what I said.” Gwen pressed her lips together, forcing herself to breathe in and out, in and out again before she went on. “I love you. I love being married to you. But you can’t pretend it doesn’t come at a very high price. Did you know that I’ve barely had a warm meal since the evening of our wedding? Unless we’re at a feast, the food is always somehow cold before it reaches my plate. My favourite dresses are mysteriously ripped and stained while hanging in the wardrobe. My bathwater is always cold.”

 

Arthur looked confused. “But — surely — ”

 

“It isn’t a coincidence,” Gwen said, overriding him. “You know I try to believe the best of people, but the fact is the other servants think I’ve gotten above myself, the noblewomen hate me for not being one of them, and _you_ — sometimes I think you forget I wasn’t born to all of this, but at other times it’s like that’s _all_ you remember, and you don’t see me at all.” She clenched her fists. “You tell me nothing and yet you expect me to understand everything, and then you act like it’s my fault when I can’t keep up.”

 

“I’ve never thought any less of you because of your birth,” Arthur said heatedly. “I wouldn't have married you if I didn't truly believe you were capable of standing by my side."

 

"I know that's what you think,” Gwen agreed. “But sometimes, the way you treat me, the assumptions you make…” She sighed. “Anyway, it’s not just about that. It’s how it made me feel — like no matter what I did, I would never be good enough. And then, when I found out I couldn’t have children…” She swallowed, remembering her mortification when the cunning woman had told her she would never bear a royal heir, or indeed any natural child of her body. That the two miscarriages she’d had were all she could expect, now or in the future. “I started to think maybe they were right. They were all right. I was never meant to be your Queen, and I never should have married you. But then she told me about a spell that could help, a charm that would ensure that the next time we lay together your seed would take, and I thought — “ She gave a little shrug; a tiny, tight-lipped smile. “I wasn’t hurting anyone. If it worked, you’d have an heir, and everyone would be happy. And if it didn’t, well. No one need ever know I’d tried.”

 

The king stared at her for a long time, apparently at a loss for words. After a few minutes, Gwen couldn’t stand to look at him anymore, so she turned away, picking at the rough wood of the chair with her fingernails. Her back ached, the weight of the heir in question sitting low against her bladder, and she was cold and damp and desperately needed to pee, but Arthur was standing between her and the door, and she didn’t feel up to pushing her way past him. 

 

Finally, he said, “I’m sorry.”

 

Gwen lifted her head. “You’re sorry?”

 

“I had no idea how hard any of this was for you. I should have…” He sighed. “I should have realised something wasn’t right.”

 

“You couldn’t have known,” Gwen pointed out, unable not to give him at least _some_ benefit of the doubt. She added, “But you could have asked.”

 

“You could have told me.”

 

“I didn’t know how.” She wrapped her arms around her torso, feeling the strange distortions of her body and wondering how she could possibly explain. “It’s just — you expect so much from people, Arthur. I don’t think you even know that you’re doing it, you just assume everyone else is as honest and honourable as you are and get angry when it turns out they’re not. You hold yourself to such high standards, it’s no wonder we so often disappoint you.”

 

“Oh, so I’m not an idiot, I’m just a demanding fool.” Arthur’s smile was more than a little bitter. “Well, I’m glad we cleared that up.”

 

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” Gwen said sharply. “It’s not like I did this to spite you.”

 

“No,” the king said. “You just did it in spite of me.”

 

Gwen looked at him, then, hearing the lost note in his voice but unable to reconcile it with the cold, almost angry look on his face. She had known Arthur in one capacity or another since she was a child, and indeed there were times when she found it impossible to imagine what her life would have been like without him, so defined had it been by his presence for as long as she could remember. She knew she loved him. She was even moderately certain that he loved her. Yet she also knew that in his world, she would always be the newcomer, the one who did not quite speak the same language, who always needed a translation for the words and looks and gestures he understood as easily as breathing. She rolled her shoulders, suddenly uncomfortable in her fine silk and furs.

 

“Have you told anyone?” she asked. “About what I did?”

 

If the court knew, there would be uproar. Arthur would not risk a public scandal, not with the negotiations still ongoing. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t speak of it in private. 

 

“Merlin knows, and Gaius. Merlin found the charm in the fire, and Gaius identified it.” Arthur looked away, something indefinable crossing his face. Was it pity? “Lancelot told us who must have put it there.”

 

“ _Lance_ told you?” Gwen felt a pang of hurt, followed quickly by a flush of embarrassment. She could only imagine how that conversation must have gone. “I suppose I never did swear him to secrecy, but I would have expected him to be more discreet.”

 

“He might have been, if he hadn’t been convinced that you were in danger.” He met her gaze. “Merlin and Gaius are working on a way to break the agreement, or get around it, or _something_ that will ensure that what happened to my mother won’t happen to you. We’re not going to let you die.”

 

A wave of relief washed over her. “Thank you,” she said, taking a step towards him. Perhaps the spell was not unbreakable after all, in spite of what Aerys seemed to think; certainly, if anyone could figure out a way to undo it, Merlin and Gaius could. “If there’s anything I can do to help, please…”

 

Arthur nodded curtly. “I have to get back,” he said, moving away from her outstretched hand before it could touch his sleeve. “I’ll let you know if there’s any news.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for leaving this so long, guys - life got kind of crazy last year, and it played havoc with my update schedule. I swear I haven't abandoned this fic, though! It will be finished, no matter how long it takes, so if you're still reading, I hope you had an awesome Christmas and a Happy New Year, and thanks for hanging in there :)
> 
> With thanks to mushroomtale and polomonkey, who inadvertently helped prod me into finishing the final section of this chapter. Finally.


End file.
